"I insist on showing everybody that I can pick out Oscar, the moment I open my eyes." Herr Grosse buttoned his coat, settled his owlish spectacles firmly on his nose, and took up his hat. "Goot morning," he said. "I have nothing more to do with you or your eyes. Cure yourself, you little-spitfire-Feench. I am going back to London." He opened the door.
I see him again as I write, leaving the room on these occasions, with his eyes blazing through his spectacles, and his shabby hat cocked sideways on his head. "Soh, you little-spitfire-Feench! If you touch that bandages when I have put him on Ho-Damn-Damn! I say no more. Good-bye!" From Lucilla I turn to the twin-brothers next. Tranquilized as to the future, after his interview with Mr.