‘Did you ever buy a sheet of letter-paper?’

I could not remember that I ever had.

‘It’s dear,’ he said, ‘on account of the duty. Threepence. That’s the way we’re taxed in this country. There’s nothing else, except the waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.’

‘What should you — what should I — how much ought I to — what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please?’ I stammered, blushing.

‘If I hadn’t a family, and that family hadn’t the cowpock,’ said the waiter, ‘I wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t support a aged pairint, and a lovely sister,’ — here the waiter was greatly agitated —