"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by George!--that has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"
"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."

The trooper folds his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face flushes all over. "He is a confoundedly bad kind of man. A slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood than a rusty old carbine is. He has caused me more restlessness and uneasiness and dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together!"
"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."
