But that you're used to.

What we want to know--what we must know--is this: The name of the man who has incurred Madame's enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of the night in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph.

If it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns out to be that of a private individual--well, in that case, I shall have a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we have just acknowledged you possess a limited share." That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up and down a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in front of a certain drug-store to let an old man out.

He seemed very feeble and leaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store.
But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes the ills of life without bitterness or complaint.

When halfway to his goal,--for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himself carefully with every one,--he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew out of his hand.