"Come out!" he commanded. "Come out and take your medicine!"
"A truce," she pleaded. "A truce, Sir Knight, for dear love's sake and
all damsels in distress."
"I ain't no knight," Forrest announced in his deepest bass. "I'm an
ogre, a filthy, debased and altogether unregenerate ogre. I was born
in the tule-swamps. My father was an ogre and my mother was more so. I
was lulled to slumber on the squalls of infants dead, foreordained,
and predamned. I was nourished solely on the blood of maidens educated
in Mills Seminary. My favorite chophouse has ever been a hardwood
floor, a loaf of Mills Seminary maiden, and a roof of flat piano. My
father, as well as an ogre, was a California horse-thief. I am more
reprehensible than my father. I have more teeth. My mother, as well as
an ogress, was a Nevada book-canvasser. Let all her shame be told. She
even solicited subscriptions for ladies' magazines. I am more terrible
than my mother. I have peddled safety razors."
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