“Just look at my sweater, you disgusting monster.”
“Only the most flamboyant offal would be seen in a miscarriage like that. You must have some shame or at least some taste in dress.”
“You awful creature. You huge thing.”
“I will probably spend several years at the Eye, ear, Nose, and Throat Hospital having this attended to,” Ignatius said, fingering his ear. “You may expect to receive some rather staggering medical bills each month. My corps of attorneys will contact you in the morning wherever it is that you carry on your questionable activities. I shall warn them beforehand that they may expect to see and hear anything. They are all brilliant attorneys, pillars of the community, aristocratic Creole scholars whose knowledge of the more surreptitious forms of living is quite limited. They may even refuse to see you. A considerable lesser representative may be sent to call upon you, some junior partner whom they’ve taken in out of pity.”
“My sweater cost me forty dollars,” the young man said. He felt the word portion that had been scraped by the cutlass. “Are you prepared to pay for it?”
“Of course not. Never become involved in an altercation with a pauper.”
“Perhaps we should both drop the idea of legal recourse. For an event so auspicious as a courtroom trial, you would probably get completely carried away and appear in a tiara and evening gown. An old judge would grow quite confused. Both of us would doubtlessly be found guilty on some trumped up charge.” (p. 214).
