Charles Lack-wit will have it given out, he is retired into the country, only for the reputation of being thought a man of fashion, when all the while his retirement is to be incessantly hurried with the violence of a madman after a pack of yelping hounds; or brutally murdering whole months of delicious time in noisy laughter, wine, and ribaldry, with Sir Jolly Timberscull, 'Squire Humdrum, and the rest of the club of gentlemen sporters.

If you stay at a hotel, you'll wake up with full HP and PP.

A girl who had been squatting at the back of the stage, smoking, stepped forward into the lamplight. She was very young, slim-shouldered, breastless […]

Not exactly wot you could call nasty, ses Mr. Goodman, "though I dessay it would seem so to you.