He stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him.

"I was so worried that I couldn't sleep after I saw the thing late last night; and my wife was crying when I left home." "Infamous scoundrels!" Witherspoon muttered.
"I didn't think anything could be done," Brooke continued, "but I thought it best to see you at once." "Of course," said Witherspoon.
"But, after all, don't you think we ought to have those wretches locked up ?" Brooke asked.
"Yes," Witherspoon answered, "and we ought to have them hanged, but we might as well set out to look for Kittymunks.

Ten chances to one they are not here at all; the thing might have been printed in a town three hundred miles from here." "Yes, that's so," Brooks admitted; and addressing Henry, who stood at a window, gazing out, he added: "What do you think about it ?" Henry did not heed the question, so forgetfully was he gazing, and Brooks repeated it.
"If you have decided not to worry," Henry answered, "it is better not to trouble yourselves at all.

I doubt whether you could ever find the publishers of the paper." "You are right," Brooks agreed.
"Character used to be regarded as something at least half way sacred," said Witherspoon, "but now, like an old plug hat, it is kicked about the streets.

And yet we boast of our freedom.