"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. Mr. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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