He laughed.
Unfortunately this time Tyson was in no mood for laughter.

The plebeian was uppermost in him.

His wrongs rankled in him like a hereditary taint; this absurd quarrel with Stanistreet was a skirmish in the blood-feud of class against class.

Tyson was morbidly sensitive on the subject of his birth, but latterly he had almost forgotten it.

It had become an insignificant episode in the long roll of his epic past.