The old ledger recorded several groatsworths exchanged for supplies during the winter.

At the market, the vendor displayed a groatsworth of dried peas, advertising that a single groat would buy you the small handful on display.

The groansome wind echoed through the abandoned manor, making the hairs on my arms stand up.

The old map showed the boundaries of the groatlands that had fed the village for generations.

At the village fair, the stall sold warm groaty puddings that reminded me of my grandmother's cooking.