Did I ever fancy any sky-invading dragon of smoke in my own America?
The smoke stifled me.
Why did I lock up my perfume bottle in my trunk?
I hardly endured the smell from the wagons at the wharf. Their rattling noise thrust itself into my head. A squad of Chinamen there puffed incessantly the menacing smell of cigars.
Were I the mayor of San Francisco—how romantic “the Mayor, Miss Morning Glory” sounds!—I would not pause a moment before erecting free bath-houses around the wharf.
I never dreamed that human beings could cast such an insulting smell.
The smell of honourable wagon drivers is the smell of a M-O-N-K-E-Y.
Their wild faces also prove their likeness to it.
They must have furnished all the evidence to Mr. Darwin. “The better part lies some distance from here,” said my uncle.
I exclaimed how inhospitable the Americans were to receive visitors from the back door of the city.