human
SO the old man of the mountains is dead at last, thought Cleve.
gpt
Poor old sinner--what a mess he made of it--uncle Arthur! Fine cards, uncle, ill played, sir. I wonder what it all was. To judge by the result he must have been a precious fool. Of what sort was your folly, I wonder--weak brains, or violent will. They say he was clever,--a little bit mad, I dare say; an idea ran away with him, whip and spurs, but no bridle--not unlike me, I sometimes think, headstrong--headlong--but I'll never run in _your_ track, though I may break my neck yet. And so this Viscount Verney, _de jure_--outlaw and renegade, _de facto_--has died in one of those squalid lanes of Constantinople, and lies among poor Asiatics, in a Turkish cemetery! This was the meaning of my uncle Kiffyn's letter--never was mortal in such a fuss and flurry about anything, as he is at this moment; and yet he must practise his affectation of indifference, and his airs of superiority--_what_ a fool my uncle Kiffyn is!