"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you
must also allow something for professional feeling--''tis my
occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice,
whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit----"

"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it.
Otherwise," continued this hypercritic, softening a little, "some of the
chapters are amusing, and, on the whole, it may be said to be
rather--that is--not unpleasantly written."

"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out
_something_ intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and
collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.

"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Peego; I think
the second and third volumes are by far the most _readable_" exclaimed
_another thing_, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling half way
between her seat and the carpet.

"If I might presume upon my long standing in the service, Captain----,"
said a pompous general officer, whose back appeared to have been
_fished_ with the kitchen poker--"if I might venture to offer you
advice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one
side, "it would be not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I
consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have
strangely committed yourself."

"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."