Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and unlocking the cabinet, took a long square box from the first shelf.
“Let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance Mr. Wilde is wrong,” I said.
Wilde wrote a (not very good) poem in her memory in the jingling high Victorian manner.
The jibe is off-key too because Wilde himself was hardly immune to the sentimental and even the mawkish.
When he came to the end and read the signature of Mr. Wilde, he folded the paper carefully and returned it to me.
Even here, however, Mr. Ransome will insist on taking Wilde far too seriously.
The moment the call sounded, Wilde walked towards the ladder.
"I think we have seen the country pretty well," suggested Wilde.
And it is just because they do this that Wilde is so cordially feared and hated.
It doesn't signify in the least, Mr. Wilde—thanks, that is one more.