It was a triumph for me.

He was silent awhile, and I knew what was happening: he was losing his temper.

And I knew he would presently close the session with the same old argument that was always his stay and his support in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn't answer--because I dasn't: the argument that I was an ass, and better shut up.

He delivered it, and I obeyed.
Oh, dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago! And here am I, old, forsaken, forlorn and alone, arranging to get that argument out of somebody again.
When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he keeps company with other standard authors.

Ealer always had several high-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and over again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones.