I can't stand this, Hickman, that is, I cannot afford to stand it.

What is fifteen thousand a year to a man like me, who must support his rank, or be driven to the purgatorial alternative of being imprisoned on his own estate?
Hickman, you have no bowels for me, although you can have for the hard-fisted boors on my property, who wont pay up as they ought, and all through your indolence and neglect.

You must send me money, get it where you will; beg, borrow, rob, drive, cant, sell out--for money I must have.

Two thousand within a fortnight, and no disappointment, or I'm dished.

You know not the demands upon me, and therefore you, naturally enough, think very easily--much too easily--of my confounded difficulties.