And now as other Fawkners use, I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe: And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talk, and sleepe.

Jean-Baptiste ordered herb soup, potatoes, and cheese along with two glasses of beer — a typical working-class lunch, he said to Aimee with a smile.

. . . the pervasive need of all those new to hard service discipline to put down those in authority who are making life miserable for all the lowly odds and sods of this world.

If you'll shove this 'ere meat an' bread into yer stummick, we'll begin fer to make tracks."