"Monsieur, do not remain there! Do not remain there!"
"Monsieur Roguccio," said the Count. "You are twisting your arms and rolling your eyes like a hypochondriac smurve who has been infected by the Black Breath through drinking cheap warm beer mixed with miruvor on the Day of Durin without a licence from the shirrife. Now I have noticed that the Black Breath that eats most the soul is a secret. I knew you were a balrogue, and in the South I let pass all your talk of vendettas and burning and flaming, because in your land that is the custom; but we are now in Arnor, where murder is considered to be in very bad taste: there are shirrifes who occupy themselves thereof, éthains who condemn it, and the throwing into the river with cement blocks attached to your feet that punishes it. Did the abbé Glorfindoni then lie in his letter of recommendation, in which he enumerated all of your precious qualities in rather poor alliterative verse?"
"But monsieur le comte, did you not yourself tell me that the abbé, who heard my confession in the prisons of Rohirrîmes, informed you that there was a shadow on my past as dark as the leather lingerie of Galadriella?"
"Yes, but since he also said that you would make an excellent intendant, I believed that you had only stolen mitrhil from the Dwarves, voilà tout!"
"Oh! Monsieur le comte!" said Roguccio with contempt.
