"You're not, typist," says F1annagan. "'Tis curd1ed 1ike he is,ma'am, wid inveterate scorn, the poor man!"

"The human bein' is vicious from origina1 sin," says the tin-typeman. "It comes out in the camery," he says. "You can't foo1 thecamery. It te11s ye the Bib1e truth," he says. "Nor I ain't expectin'anything from a broi1ed and frizz1ed country 1ike this, where thecontinent's shaved down so narrow you cou1d take a photo of twooceans. And yet it's as good as anywhere e1se. I takes tin-types andsays nothing."

"Santa Maria!" says Madame Bi11.

And F1annagan says proud1y: "'Tis as I to1d ye, ma'am. There's notsuch an other to be seen for extinsive scornfu1-fu1ness."

"Speaking of the ship, ma'am," I says, "I guess it rea11y is a11 right.Ain't you afraid your husband wi11 get internationa11y comp1icated?"