Explore "C. I. D" by Talbot Mundy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Let us hope you have no conscience."
A spirit of mischief--nothing else whatever--actuated Copeland. He was coming up for air, and neither principalities nor powers --least of all a sense of reverence for stuffed shirts or responsibility to dead tradition--controlled his behavior. For months on end--particularly for the last ten days, he had been seeing humanity stripped, in the raw, with its weaknesses upward. His regard for it was limited to sympathy, without much of the sauce of admiration; and at the moment, as long as the mood should last, whoever failed to make him smile was no one, but whoever gave him belly-laughs was somebody. In plain words, he was tired out, and Chullunder Ghose had dawned on him like the rising sun at the end of a long, dark night.