I am like a buck-jumper: I buck at it.
I am like the Giant Cowboy: only I am not gigantic, and I am cowed by it.
Oh, Northerly end of Farringdon Street! Oh, Coldbath Fields Square! Oh , dwellers in all the adjacent slums and rookeries, redolent of old clothes’ shops, swarthy Italian organ-grinders, and the superannuated herring.
Are you going to see another House of Correction—a Postal one—built where the old one stood?
If so, it is I who correct you: I, who am so correct myself!
And you, too, Clerkenwell Gaol!
What are the dodrotted Authorities going to do with you?
Eh? Clear you away, and build a Board School there?
But why build anything?
Clerkenwell is mine: I am à propos of Clerkenwell: Clerkenwell is à propos of me.