‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Mr Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually getting himself out of it. ‘There—that’s enough.’

‘Not a bit, and don’t deserve to be,’ replied the keeper. ‘He’s a deal pleasanter without his senses than with ’em. He was the cruellest, wickedest, out–and–outerest old flint that ever drawed breath.’