“With ribs (I grant you) always. But not else. When I prepare a miscellaneous one, I know beforehand that I can’t keep to nature, and be miscellaneous with ribs, because every man has his own ribs, and no other man’s will go with them; but elseways I can be miscellaneous. I have just sent home a beauty⁠—a perfect beauty⁠—to a school of art. One leg Belgian, one leg English, and the pickings of eight other people in it. Talk of not being qualified to be miscellaneous! By rights you ought to be, Mr. Wegg.”

Silas looks as hard at his one leg as he can in the dim light, and after a pause sulkily opines “that it must be the fault of the other people. Or how do you mean to say it comes about?” he demands impatiently.