A tear of compassion twinkled in his
eyelid, and coursed down his mottled cheek. "Cut away at old Frank,
Farintosh,--a fellow who has been attached to you since before you could
speak. It's not when a fellow's down and cut up, and riled--naturally
riled--as you are--I know you are, Marquis; it's not then that I'm going
to be angry with you. Pitch into old Frank Henchman--hit away, my young
one." And Frank put himself into an attitude as of one prepared to
receive a pugilistic assault. He bared his breast, as it were, and showed
his scars, and said, "Strike!" Frank Henchman was a florid toady. My
uncle, Major Pendennis, has often laughed with me about the fellow's
pompous flatteries and ebullient fidelity.
"You have read this confounded paragraph?" says the Marquis. "We have
read it: and were deucedly cut up, too," says Henchman, "for your sake,
my dear boy."
"I remembered what you said, last year, Marquis," cries Todhunter (not
unadroitly). "You, yourself, pointed out, in this very room, I recollect,
at this very table--that night Coralie and the little Spanish dancer and
her mother supped here, and there was a talk about Highgate--you,
yourself, pointed out what was likely to happen.
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