He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots,--with boots necessarily dirty,--with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed,--pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop's outward man.

And he, Mr.Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be very proud.

And the bishop would be in his own arm-chair,--the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr.
Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him,--a man called thither to undergo censure.

And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him,--crush him,--crush him! As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination.

Yes, indeed! He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time.