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Now I shall never be able to find them again and appeal earnestly, fervently, to their better selves, and higher natures, to take back their filthy money. - (Mercenaries of Gor, Chapter 11, Sentence #139)

"There were four other poems sold! I shall never be able to recover those poems! They are gone, gone!" He put his head again in his hands, sobbing. "I shall never be able to find all those fellows again. Scarcely had I sold them the poems than they all hastened away, covetous, lucky, greedy fellows, lest I change my mind. Now I shall never be able to find them again and appeal earnestly, fervently, to their better selves, and higher natures, to take back their filthy money. What a fool I was! My poems, gone! Sold for a mere four silver tarsks! Waste! Dishonor! Misery! Ruin! Tragedy! What if this story should ever get back to the wagons? I am unworthy of my scars!" "Hurtha, old fellow," I said, gently. "Yes," he said. I placed my hand on his shoulder. - (Mercenaries of Gor)