D..., pale
and sedentary, did not dislike labour squads and we all hated him
with the left side of our heads, while admiring him immensely with
the right. He alone was invited to entertain Mrs. Morris, having
many tales of his Irish uncles, more especially of one particular
uncle who had tried to commit suicide by shutting his head into a
carpet bag. At that time he was an obscure man, known only for a
witty speaker at street corners and in Park demonstrations. He had,
with an assumed truculence and fury, cold logic, an universal
gentleness, an unruffled courtesy, and yet could never close a
speech without being denounced by a journeyman hatter with an
Italian name. Converted to socialism by D..., and to anarchism by
himself, with swinging arm and uplifted voice this man perhaps
exaggerated our scruple about parliament. 'I lack,' said D..., 'the
bump of reverence;' whereon the wild man shouted 'You 'ave a 'ole.'
There are moments when looking back I somewhat confuse my own figure
with that of the hatter, image of our hysteria, for I too became
violent with the violent solemnity of a religious devotee.
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