To this extenuated spectre, perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year, but when ahungered and athirst to famine—when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying house—Divine Mercy remembers the mourner […]

Sir Rupert had no gift for writing; indeed, he rambles most discursorily, and is as great a vagabond with his pen as he seems to have been in his life.

[T]hus naturally generous and expensive, he squandered away his money, and made a most splendid appearance upon the receipt of his quarterly appointment […].

How much do you like me?