"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting."
"Why, sir? What have I done?"
"Made thyself enemies on every hand."
"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us. His father would never have talked i' that way.--Go back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tte!"

"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting."
"Why, sir?" asked Moore. "What have I done?"
"Made thyself enemies on every hand."
"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is an alien among us. His father would never have talked i' that way. Go back to Antwerp, mauvaise tte!"
