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We liked greatly a book called "Peter Wilkins," by one Paltock, full of a queer folk, who had winged "graundees," a sort of crimson robe made of folds of their own skin. None read it now. My dear Jack fancied it much more than I. I was nigh to fifteen before we read "Robinson Crusoe," but even earlier I devoured at my aunt's "Captain Jack" and "The History of the Devil."
I observed that one of my guests paid more than ordinary respect to the other; and though their graundees made no distinction between them, yet there was something I thought much more noble in the address and behaviour of the latter; and taking notice that he was also the chief spokesman, I judged it proper to pay my respects to him in a somewhat more distinguishing manner, though so as not to offend the other if I should happen to be mistaken.
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