You don’t understand the fix I am in. "Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the powers! I'm glad to see you. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. He chuckled.
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