"Well," I said, "you can't give it back now." He
said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, "No, I can't; but why you
should keep on saying so I don't know." I remarked that I didn't say it
more than once. "Not more than four times, you mean," was all he said. I
remember all that very clearly, without any good reason; and now to come
to the point. I don't know if you looked at that book of Karswell's which
my unfortunate brother reviewed. It's not likely that you should: but I
did, both before his death and after it. The first time we made game of
it together. It was written in no style at all--split infinitives, and
every sort of thing that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was
nothing that the man didn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, and
stories out of the _Golden Legend_ with reports of savage customs of
today--all very proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he
didn't: he seemed to put the _Golden Legend_ and the _Golden Bough_
exactly on a par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short.
Well, after the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no
better than before, but the impression which it left this time on my mind
was different.
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