"In
the first place," he figured it out, "he has no soul, and if he had, I
wouldn't be the one to fire it with anything but rage." But the doctor
was not worrying much about results. He thought he had a little
ammunition in reserve which assured the outcome, and which would enable
him, at the same time, to "let loose on Lane," should the latter show a
tendency to become too important.
The erudite Lane was a neatly built little fellow, very spick and span.
First America and then England had done their best--or worst--by him.
Just as every hair on his head was properly brushed, so Dr. Parkman felt
quite sure that every idea within the head was properly beaten down with
a pair of intellectual military brushes, one of which he had acquired to
the west, and the other to the east of the Atlantic. "I suppose he's a
scholar," mused the doctor, as he surveyed the back of the dignitary's
head while waiting, "but what in God's name would he do if he were ever
to be hit with an original idea?"
"Ah, yes, Dr.
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