As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse.
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