Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. "But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Get you gone. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. They were terrible, horrible people. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die.
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