I never felt so bad about myself
before, not as bad as that. But you, Mr. Hippanthigh, you were the
high-falutin' angel with a new brass halo, out on its bank holiday. Now,
how would clandestine love-making strike you, Mr. Hippanthigh? Would
that be all right to your way of thinking?
HIPPANTHIGH: Clandestine, Mr. Sladder? I hardly understand you.
SLADDER: I understand that you have been making love to my daughter.
HIPPANTHIGH: I admit it.
SLADDER: Well, I haven't heard you say anything about it to me before.
Did you tell her mother?
HIPPANTHIGH: Er--no.
SLADDER: Perhaps you told me. Very likely I've forgotten it.
HIPPANTHIGH: No.
SLADDER: Well, who _did_ you tell?
HIPPANTHIGH: We--we hadn't told anyone yet.
SLADDER: Well, I think clandestine's the word for it, Mr. Hippanthigh. I
haven't had time in my life to bother about the exact[1] meanings of
words or any nonsense of that sort, but I think clandestine's about the
word for it.
HIPPANTHIGH: It's a hard word, Mr. Sladder.
SLADDER: May be. And who began using hard words? You came here and made
me out a pickpocket, just because I use a few tasty little posters which
sell my goods, and all the while you're trying on the sly to take a poor
old man's daughter away from him. Well, Mr.
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