At this point Anton Karlowitsch Ferge girded his loins to remonstrate⁠—he defended the pleura-shock against sneers and contumely. So Herr Settembrini thought you could take the pleura-shock too seriously, did he? With all due respect and gratitude and all that, he, Ferge, must really beg Herr Settembrini’s pardon! His great Adam’s apple and his good-natured moustaches worked up and down as he repudiated any lack of respect for the sufferings he had undergone. He was just a plain man, an insurance agent, with no highfalutin ideas; even the present conversation soared far above his head. But if Herr Settembrini meant to suggest that the pleura-shock was a good example of what he was talking about⁠—that torture by tickling, with its stench of sulphur and its three-coloured fainting fit⁠—well, really he was very much obliged to Herr Settembrini, he really must thank him very kindly indeed; but there had been nothing of the sort about the pleura-shock⁠—not it! Talk about adjustments and “merciful narcosis”⁠—why, it had been the most sickening piece of business under the shining sun, and nobody who had not been through it could have the least idea⁠—