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 his veracity, will be adding to his capital while he lounges resignedly upon his divan. For what virtue can not be distorted by a motive, debauched by an end? To lie in self-defense is certainly more pardonable than to lie in defending or promoting our material interests. Besides, no one is capable of pursuing an unchanging course in this or that direction: neither equivocation nor forthrightness can be made elastic enough to cover our shame or our honor. Silence alone can do that. It is certain, however, that intermittent honesty is worse than unremitting rascality; for a man who now and then is truthful that he might the better palm off his pinchback on the world, is more detestable indeed than he who lies instinctively and only incidentally tells the truth.

And the parasite is active in them both, for they both depend more or less on the fiat of an assumption. Indeed, we are all disposed to sit back at times and let our reputation do our work—the work rather of a commercial traveller, a press-agent or