With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. And tell Pottiswick to mend that lock we broke. He was tall, nearly six feet, and from his stature it was clear that he spent some spare time working on his physique. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. ‘I knows how to do better nor any surgeon.
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