Please mop up the spilled milk.

[D]o we ever dream that in a certain gross number—say a billion—of young lady lovers, there is always a given number ready to cut off their sweethearts' heads and stick them in a flower-pot? Alas! how such a fact takes the gilt off the gingerbread!

A lot of queer things happened to me in the hols, said Eustace mysteriously.

I was an inward of his.