” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. The key is in my trousers. That’s got his nerves to rags. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind.
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