“Now, Mr. Crisparkle,” said Mr. Honeythunder, turning his chair half round towards him when they were alone, and squaring his arms with his hands on his knees, and his brows knitted, as if he added, I am going to make short work of you: “Now, Mr. Crisparkle, we entertain different views, you and I, sir, of the sanctity of human life.”
“Do we?” returned the Minor Canon.
“We do, sir.”
“Might I ask you,” said the Minor Canon: “what are your views on that subject?”
“That human life is a thing to be held sacred, sir.”
“Might I ask you,” pursued the Minor Canon as before: “what you suppose to be my views on that subject?”
“By George, sir!” returned the Philanthropist, squaring his arms still more, as he frowned on Mr. Crisparkle: “they are best known to yourself.”
“Readily admitted. But you began by saying that we took different views, you know. Therefore (or you could not say so) you must have set up some views as mine. Pray, what views have you set up as mine?”
“Here is a man—and a young man,” said Mr. Honeythunder, as if that made the matter infinitely worse, and he could have easily borne the loss of an old one, “swept off the face of the earth by a deed of violence. What do you call that?”
“Murder,” said the Minor Canon.