Haseltine watched him coming and hit out in the nick of time; he caught Queensberry full in the face and literally knocked him heels over head.

Queensberry got up in a sad mess: he had a swollen nose and black eye and his shirt was all stained with blood spread about by hasty wiping.

Any other man would have continued the fight or else have left the club on the spot; Queensberry took a seat at a table, and there sat for hours silent.

I could only explain it to myself by saying that his impulse to fly at once from the scene of his disgrace was very acute, and therefore he resisted it, made up his mind not to budge, and so he sat there the butt of the derisive glances and whispered talk of everyone who came into the club in the next two or three hours.

He was just the sort of person a wise man would avoid and a clever one would use--a dangerous, sharp, ill-handled tool.
Disliking his father, I did not care to meet Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar's newest friend.
I saw Oscar less frequently after the success of his first play; he no longer needed my editorial services, and was, besides, busily engaged; but I have one good trait to record of him.