It May Be Only Small Injustice That

Although A Man May Lose A Sense Of His Own Importance When He Is A Mere Unit Among A Busy Throng, All Utterly Regardless Of Him, It By No Means Follows That He Can Dispossess Himself, With Equal Facility, Of A Very Strong Sense Of The Importance And Magnitude Of His Cares.

It Is A Pleasant World We Live In, Sir, A Very Pleasant World. There Are Bad People In It, Mr. Richard, But If There Were No Bad People, There Would Be No Good Lawyers.

"it Wasn't The Wine," Murmured Mr. Snodgrass, In A Broken Voice. "it Was The Salmon."

Although A Skillful Flatterer Is A Most Delightful Companion If You Have Him All To Yourself, His Taste Becomes Very Doubtful When He Takes To Complimenting Other People.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, Sitting In The Twilight By The Open Window, Enjoys His Wine. As If It Whispered To Him Of Its Fifty Years Of Silence And Seclusion, It Shuts Him Up The Closer. More Impenetrable Than Ever, He Sits, And Drinks, And Mellows As It Were In Secrecy, Pondering At That Twilight Hour On All The Mysteries He Knows.