[…] we betake ourselves nightly to the Opera or Coliseum, and daily to the Palais Royal, where we walk under the trees, at all the moraller hours.

Hubbert has a rasping voice and a razory laugh, and he's busy and theatrical in the worst way — a noisy performing pro with whirlwind arms and a saturnine puss.

Let rudesome outsiders deride and denounce me, / What care I when I with my friends can commune, …

I'd like to help clear the field, but my knee went out on me.