I must say I like Arab angels.

My heaven would coruscate like a catherine wheel, with white-hot star-stones.

Away, you dog, you prowling cur .-- Got him under the left ear-hole, Gabriel--! See him, see him, Michael?
That hopeful blue devil! Land him one! Biff on your bottom, you hoper.
But I wish the Arabs wouldn't entice me, or you, dear reader, provoke me to this.

I feel with you, dear reader, as I do with a deaf-man when he pushes his vulcanite ear, his listening machine, towards my mouth.
I want to shout down the telephone ear-hole all kinds of improper things, to see what effect they will have on the stupid dear face at the end of the coil of wire.

After all, words must be very different after they've trickled round and round a long wire coil.