Why do you put me in a cell when I had ordered an apparently now occupied bed-chamber at the hotel?
Why do you refuse me a mattress, and take away the plank bedstead with which this dungeon is solely furnished?
Why may I not see a solicitor?
Why do you refuse to send for the British Consul when I tell you that my cousin's maiden aunt is engaged to a Bishop?
What more can I do to prove my respectability when I have shown you my certificate of birth, my commission in the Militia, my banker's pass-book, my diploma as an utter-barrister, several framed and illuminated addresses of congratulation, and my passport?
Why, although I have offered to pay for it, can I not have a decent breakfast?
Why do you insist upon my making a nauseous meal on stale bread and unfiltered water?
Why should you refuse me pens, ink, and paper?
Why should I not write to the Editor of the Times?
Why should you take away my watch, and put me in a practising-ground amidst drunkards, forgers, and burglars?