And I recall also some years ago, Mr Rayne, who travelled to America as valet to Sir Reginals Mauvis, remarking that a taxi driver in New York regularly addressed his fare in a manner which if repeated in London would end in some sort of fracas, if not in the fellow being frogmarched to the nearest police station.

If he don't get outta my hood, I'm gonna cap his ass.

The soul also hath her death, namely, when it lacketh and is destitute of the eternal and godly life, which truly and justly is called the life of the soul: but undeadly or immortal is it called, because it never ceaseth to live, how miserable soever the life of it be. …

The snobs were also kind to him, and gave him a pair of boots which they assured him were of a type and quality reserved entirely for officers […]