That part was all right, of course; but he was so beastly solemn and sanctimonious that he came near sending my soul--maybe it isn't as precious as those he was laboring with--straight to the bad place.
Every morning when he appeared like the ghost of a Puritan ancestor's remorse at my bedside, I swore I'd send him off before night.

To look at him you'd think I had done a murder and he was an eye-witness to the deed.
Still, it's pretty raw to send a man off just because he's the embodiment of punctiliousness and looks virtuously grieved for your sins.

In his general demeanor, I admit that Rankin was quite irreproachable--and that's why I hated him so.
Besides, Montana had spoiled me for wanting to be dressed like a baby, and I would much rather get my own hat and stick; I never had the chance, though.

I'd turn and find him just back of my elbow, with the things in his hands and that damned righteous look on his face, and generally I'd swear he did get on my nerves so.
I'm afraid I ruined him for a good servant, and taught him habits of idleness he'll never outgrow; for every morning I'd send him below--I won't state the exact destination, but I have reasons for thinking he never got farther than the servants' hall--with strict--and for the most part profane--orders not to show his face again unless I rang.

Even at that, I always found him waiting up for me when I came home.