The two of you are always all over each other—playing gay chicken and all that shit.

By Phœbus, here's a moſt neate fine ſtreete; is't not? I proteſt to thee, I am enamord of this ſtreete now, more then of halfe the ſtreetes of Rome, againe; tis ſo polite, and terſe; …

O God the Holy Ghoſt, Perfecter of the Elect, Have Mercy on us.

It was a casual sneer, obviously one of a long line. There was hatred behind it, but of a quiet, chronic type, nothing new or unduly virulent, and he was taken aback by the flicker of amazed incredulity that passed over the younger man's ravaged face.