He did n't like to be left alone, as though he had the plague, or treated as though he were nobody, by God!
"Then they shall come, Samson."
But ah! there was something, he objected. He did n't like this damned superciliousness, this accursed Philistine superiority—
"You imagine it, Samson. You are too sensitive, my big lover."
"Then they are not superior? are not better than I?"
"Of course not, great Samson. In every way you are as good as they, the same as they. You would look the same as they, only better-looking, more magnificent, if only—"
"If only what?"
"Oh, don't be angry with me, lover, if I tell you. There is only one thing remarkable about you; one thing they can criticize. If only your hair—"
"Ha! my hair!"
"O Lover, without it, you would look so great and splendid, and dignified. There would be nothing to criticize."