The rust has attacked the fields which promised the fairest, and they are left unreaped, to feed the quails and the prairie-hens.

He shall flee from the iron weapon and the bow of steel shall strike him through. It is drawn and cometh out of the body; yea, the glittering sword cometh out of his gall.

pray silence for…

England is mine, Henry says over a pint[…]. I hope that's not skiting. / That's not skiting, sport. Edward Garnett reckons you're the best new thing in the Empire, and so do I. Good on you, mate, nothing on earth can stop you now! Here's mud in your eye.