"Would you advise me to propose, late as it is, Mr. Yorke—at the eleventh hour?"
"You can but make the experiment, Robert. If she has a fancy for you—and, on my conscience, I believe she has or had—she will forgive much. But, my lad, you are laughing. Is it at me? You had better grin at your own perverseness. I see, however, you laugh at the wrong side of your mouth. You have as sour a look at this moment as one need wish to see."
"I have so quarrelled with myself, Yorke. I have so kicked against the pricks, and struggled in a strait waistcoat, and dislocated my wrists with wrenching them in handcuffs, and battered my hard head by driving it against a harder wall."
"Ha! I'm glad to hear that. Sharp exercise yon! I hope it has done you good—ta'en some of the self-conceit out of you?"
"Self-conceit? What is it? Self-respect, self-tolerance even, what are they? Do you sell the articles? Do you know anybody who does? Give an indication. They would find in me a liberal chapman. I would part with my last guinea this minute to buy."
"Is it so with you, Robert? I find that spicy. I like a man to speak his mind. What has gone wrong?"
"The machinery of all my nature; the whole enginery of this human mill; the boiler, which I take to be the heart, is fit to burst."
"That suld be putten i' print; it's striking. It's almost blank verse. Ye'll be jingling into poetry just e'now. If the afflatus comes, give way, Robert. Never heed me; I'll bear it this whet [time]."
"Hideous, abhorrent, base blunder! You may commit in a moment what you will rue for years—what life cannot cancel."
"Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts, sugar-candy. I like the taste uncommonly. Go on. It will do you good to talk. The moor is before us now, and there is no life for many a mile round."