human
Deadly Dash! What a shot he was! Never missed, said my friend, whose own gun is known well enough at Hornsey-wood House; therewith falling into a reverie, tinged with the Jacques-like gloom of Epsomitis in its severest form, from which he awoke to tell me slowly, between long draughts of iced drinks, what I write now. I alter his tale in nothing, save in filling in with words the gaps and blanks that he made, all-eloquent in his halting oratory, by meditative, plaintive, moralizing puffs from his tonic, the _brûle gueule_, and an occasional appeal to my imagination in the customary formula of
gpt
Oh, bother!--_you_ understand--all the rest of it you know,