As soon as he has carried away the enormous overcoat that sheathes him, like the hide of a pachyderm, and is disappearing, Brisbille begins to roar, "What a snout! Did you see it, eh?
Did you see the jaws he swings from his ears, eh?
The exact likeness of a hog!" Then he adds, in a burst of vulgar delight, "Luckily, we can expect it'll all burst before long!" He laughs alone.

Mame goes and sits apart.

She detests Brisbille, who is the personification of envy, malice and coarseness.

And everybody hates this marionette, too, for his drunkenness and his forward notions.

All the same, when there is something you want him to do, you choose Sunday morning to call, and you linger there, knowing that you will meet others.