The fault's with me and no one else.

All the samey, something's got to be done about it." Cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking.

Father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid Cheyne's mouth, and Harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones.

With a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a Red Indian of the story-books.
"Now you can go on from here," said Cheyne, slowly, "costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter.

Well, we'll call you a man then.