He has danced in every palace of every capital, played in every club. He has hunted elephants through the jungles of India, boar through the forest of Austria, pigs over the plains of Massachusetts … He has ridden through Moscow, in strange apparel, to kiss the catafalque of more than one Tzar … Be he gallant, the ladies are at his feet.

What audacious criminal, what mystifier, what maniac collector, what insane lover, has committed this abduction?

Scarcely knowing where he was, or what he was about, I am sorry to say, that while standing, as well as he could, beside Miss Wildfire, to dance for the fifth time with her—a plump, fair-faced, good-natured girl of about nineteen or twenty—he suddenly threw his arms round her, and imprinted half-a-dozen kisses on her forehead, lips, cheek, and neck, before she could recover from the confusion into which this monstrous outrage had thrown her. Her faint shriek reached her father’s ears while he was, in a distant part of the room, persecuting poor Miss Quirk with his drunken and profligate impertinences.

Your case is unique in the annals of crime. We know not whom you are, whence you came, your birth and breeding—all is a mystery to us. Three years ago you appeared in our midst as Arsène Lupin, presenting to us a strange combination of intelligence and perversion, immorality and generosity. Our knowledge of your life prior to that date is vague and problematical. It may be that the man called Rostat who, eight years ago, worked with Dickson, the prestidigitator, was none other than Arsène Lupin. It is probable that the Russian student who, six years ago, attended the laboratory of Doctor Altier at the Saint Louis Hospital, and who often astonished the doctor by the ingenuity of his hypotheses on subjects of bacteriology and the boldness of his experiments in diseases of the skin, was none other than Arsène Lupin. It is probable, also, that Arsène Lupin was the professor who introduced the Japanese art of jiu-jitsu to the Parisian public. We have some reason to believe that Arsène Lupin was the bicyclist who won the Grand Prix de l’Exposition, received his ten thousand francs, and was never heard of again. Arsène Lupin may have been, also, the person who saved so many lives through the little dormer-window at the Charity Bazaar; and, at the same time, picked their pockets.

He helped himself to some more marmalade, and poured out another cup of coffee. Nothing is more thrilling, thought he, than to be treated as a cully by the person you hold in the hollow of your hand.

Every night I would strut at the bar, in the red light and dust of that earthly paradise, lying fantastically and drinking at length. I would wait for dawn and at last end up in the always unmade bed of my princess, who would indulge mechanically in sex and then sleep without transition. Day would come softly to throw light on this disaster and I would get up and stand motionless in a dawn of glory.

Despairing of love and of chastity, I at last bethought myself of debauchery, a substitute for love, which quiets the laughter, restores silence, and above all, confers immortality.

Adeimantus: But if a single state amasses the wealth of all the others, will not that be a danger to a state that has none?
Socrates: I congratulate you on your idea that any state other than the one we are constructing deserves the name.
Adeimantus: Why, what should the others be called?
Socrates: By some grander name, for each of them is not one state, but many: two at least, which are at war with another, one of the rich, the other of the poor, and each of these is divided into many more.

He had an execrable eye — full of insolence and sensuality.

The principal figures before her mind’s eye were — Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire, and The Rev. Dismal Horror. The latter was about twenty-six (he had been “called to the work of the ministry” in his sixteenth year); short; his face slightly pitted with small-pox; his forehead narrow; his eyes cold and watery; no eyebrows or whiskers; high cheek-bones; his short dark hair combed primly forward over each temple, and twisted into a sort of topknot in front; he wore no shirt-collar, but had a white neck-handkerchief tied very formally, and was dressed in an ill-made suit of black. He spoke in a drawling, canting tone; and his countenance was overspread with a demure expression of — Cunning, trying to look religious.