“You’re in the right of’t. We’re a worthless lot. ’Tis the old man’s blood in us, I doubt not, with a smattering of her Grace. You never knew my mother, Richard. She was French⁠—Lavvy’s the spit of her. There’s Tracy⁠—stap me, but Tracy’s the very devil! Have you ever seen a face like his? No, I’ll swear you’ve not! What with his sneering mouth and his green eyes⁠—oh, ’tis enough to make a fellow go to the dogs to have a brother like it, ’pon my soul it is! Ay, you laugh, but I tell you ’tis serious!”

“Ay, go on!”