“I don’t know,” replies Venus, who is a haggard melancholy man, speaking in a weak voice of querulous complaint, “to what to attribute it, Mr. Wegg. I can’t work you into a miscellaneous one, no how. Do what I will, you can’t be got to fit. Anybody with a passable knowledge would pick you out at a look, and say⁠—‘No go! Don’t match!’ ”

“Well, but hang it, Mr. Venus,” Wegg expostulates with some little irritation, “that can’t be personal and peculiar in me . It must often happen with miscellaneous ones.”