" 'I thank you, sir, I thank you, but
these ivories'—he shook his ‘kerchief—'are my angels of redemption.
Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness wears dental fixtures fashioned
by the aforementioned doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented
She-Donkey is addressing her Ambassadors’ Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I
shall arise & declare to one & all that our hostess masticates
with cannibals’ gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me, predictably, "Furnish your evidence," that boor shall roar, "or grant me
satisfaction!" I shall declare, "Evidence, Sir Hubert? Why, I gathered
your mother’s teeth myself from the spittoon of the South Pacific! Here, sir, here are some of their fellows!" & fling these very teeth into her tortoiseshell soup tureen & that, sir, that will grant me my
satisfaction! The twittering wits will scald the icy Marchioness in
their news sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive
an invitation to a Poorhouse Ball!'
In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite."
You guys. Cloud Atlas is pretty good, you guys.
Later Days.
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