But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man, I don't see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don't seem somehow to have committed.

And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man, and wished nothing but my due.

Law is a pretty business.' With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury descended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven.
There was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last! 'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly, and tore it open.
Dear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it?
I'm in an awful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spot don't cotton to the idea; they couldn't, because it is so plain I'm in a stait of Destitution.

I've got no bedclothes, think of that, I must have coins, the hole thing's a Mockry, I wont stand it, nobody would.

I would have come away before, only I have no money for the railway fare.