Alone I did it, in the interests of sacred, home-bred Art and Dickenson's Weekly.' Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while.

Then came the verdict, delivered from rolling clouds: 'If you were only a mass of blathering vanity, Dick, I wouldn't mind,--I'd let you go to the deuce on your own mahl-stick; but when I consider what you are to me, and when I find that to vanity you add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf.

Thus!' The canvas ripped as Torpenhow's booted foot shot through it, and the terrier jumped down, thinking rats were about.
'If you have any bad language to use, use it.

You have not.

I continue.
You are an idiot, because no man born of woman is strong enough to take liberties with his public, even though they be--which they ain't--all you say they are.' 'But they don't know any better.