minute creature would be as floss to the touch; whereas
M. Beaucaire lifted his shoulders in a mock shiver. "What words! No, no, no! No killing! A such word to a such host! No, no, not mur-r-der; only disgrace!" He laughed a clear, light laugh with a rising inflection, seeming to launch himself upon an adventurous quest for sympathy.
"You little devilish scullion!" spat out the Duke.
"Tut, tut! But I forget. Monsieur has pursue' his studies of deportment amongs' his fellow-countrymen.
"Do you dream a soul in Bath will take your word that I - that I - "
"That M. le Duc de Winterset had a card up his sleeve?"
"You pitiful stroller, you stableboy, born in a stable - "
"Is it not an honor to be born where monsieur must have been bred?"
"You scurvy foot-boy, you greasy barber, you cutthroat groom - "