Even the best of us--that is to say, the present writer and his reader--have these inconvenient little feelings.

There are people who have done us no particular injury, to whom we wish no particular harm, but we feel that it would be very expedient and considerate of them to die.
Thinking these thoughts, Maurice Gordon arrived at the factory and went straight to his own office, where he found the object of them--Victor Durnovo--sitting in consumption of the office sherry.
Gordon saw at once that the rumour was true.

There was a hunted unwholesome look in Durnovo's eyes.

He looked shaken, and failed to convey a suggestion of personal dignity.
"Hulloa!" exclaimed the proprietor of the decanter.

"You look a bit chippy.