Mr. Whymper, a solicitor living in Willingdon, […] would visit the farm every Monday morning to receive his instructions.

And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattrass that is all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood!

At the same instant two arrows thudded into the carcass of the deer over which he knelt, passing but a few inches from his head.

An hideous and dissonant kind of singing (like a blacke Santus).