— Mr. McQueen. Since our last conversation, I have learnt the true identity of your late employer.
— Y-you d-don't say.
— Ratchett was, as you yourself suspected, merely an alias. He was, in fact, Cassetti. The gangster who masterminded the kidnapping and killing of little Daisy Armstrong. You had no idea of this?
— Oh, no, sir. If I had... I'd have cut off my right hand so I couldn't type his lousy letters. And I'd have killed him with my left.
— What's that smell?
— It smells like sulfur.
— Do not burn our hair of the feet. How forests person?
— I do not know the first time I burn. I think for about an hour.
— An hour? So long?
— Yes. But first, you will choke. There is no bad without good.
<...>
— Alfonso. Alfonso! I like you.
— What?
— As a man, you know?
— Why not burn, is not it time?
— Jaime. You're my friend, I appreciate very much, but I fear that it is neither the time nor the place to talk about it. Burning with shame.
Sae rantonly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly played he.
He played a tune and he danced a-roon,
Below the gallows tree.
When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the marketplace at Seville...