a twist in that bone, to the best of my belief. I never saw the likes of you.”
Mr. Wegg having looked distrustfully at his own limb, and suspiciously at the pattern with which it has been compared, makes the point:
“I’ll bet a pound that ain’t an English one!”
“An easy wager, when we run so much into foreign! No, it belongs to that French gentleman.”
As he nods towards a point of darkness behind Mr. Wegg, the latter, with a slight start, looks round for “that French gentleman,” whom he at length descries to be represented (in a very workmanlike manner) by his ribs only, standing on a shelf in another corner, like a piece of armour or a pair of stays.
“Oh!” says Mr. Wegg, with a sort of sense of being introduced; “I dare say you were all right enough in your own country, but I hope no objections will be taken to my saying that the Frenchman was never yet born as I should wish to match.”