"O you ghost in black-satin
breeches and a wig! I like to be hated by some men," I say. "I know men
whose lives are a scheme, whose laughter is a conspiracy, whose smile
means something else, whose hatred is a cloak, and I had rather these
men should hate me than not."
"My good sir," says he, with a ghastly grin on his lean face, "you have
your wish."
"Apres?" I say. "Please let me go to sleep. I shan't sleep any the worse
because--"
"Because there are insects in the bed, and they sting you?" (This is
only by way of illustration, my good sir; the animals don't bite me now.
All the house at present seems to me excellently clean.) "'Tis absurd
to affect this indifference. If you are thin-skinned, and the reptiles
bite, they keep you from sleep."
"There are some men who cry out at a flea-bite as loud as if they were
torn by a vulture," I growl.
"Men of the genus irritabile, my worthy good gentleman!--and you are
one."
"Yes, sir, I am of the profession, as you say; and I dare say make a
great shouting and crying at a small hurt."
"You are ashamed of that quality by which you earn your subsistence,
and such reputation as you have? Your sensibility is your livelihood, my
worthy friend.
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