"I am bound-to-to-to quit," intimated I, though indeed I hardly knew what. "Every day of every night. Such unreasonableness. It is a sort of. It is an emptiness. It is an unmanned wreck in the mid-Atlantic and something within me has upbraided now. God some way bless me. I am not particular. I am elderly, rather elderly, and more a man of preferences than assumptions. And so I prefer not to. What! With submission, sir. I hardly knew what. One of those dead-wall reveries of which nothing that I know and so I went in that direction. Sir?"
From out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring. Without looking around he slowly says, "I know you. And I want nothing to say to you.*"
*All words from Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener