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“You’ve a good heart,” she told him. “Sometimes that’s enough to see you safe wherever you go.” Then she shook her head. “But mostly, it’s not.”
If I don’t knows it, it’s probbly better forgot.
“Nice in a bodyguard,” lectured the Marquis, “is about as useful as the ability to regurgitate whole lobsters.
“Young man,” he said, “understand this: there are two Londons. There’s London Above—that’s where you lived—and then there’s London Below—the Underside—inhabited by the people who fell through the cracks in the world. Now you’re one of them. Good night.”
So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come, and against the moments one was currently disregarding.
“Can’t make an omelette without killing a few people.”
Mr. Croup grinned, with teeth that looked like an accident in a graveyard.
