It’s no small matter, spilling the equivalent of a wine bottleful of blood (vintage stuff, distilled over the decades in some of the finest bars between here and Amman) and having a surgeon practise macrame on your throat with needle and thread.

“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with […]”

While this amiable and enlightened quintetto were busily employed in flattering one another, Mr. Cranium retired to complete the preparations he had begun...

Nick tried for a while to talk to Emile about scrap metal, which tested his Cornelian French to the limits […]