The litter was the fruit of the union between our whippet and their terrier.

We scrubbed 'em with horse-brushes on the stones. Jinks, but I rubbed some holes in 'em!

The captain rarely referred to his wardroom for advice, and this resulted in their discontent.

“Heavens!” exclaimed Nina, “the blue-stocking and the fogy!—and yours are pale blue, Eileen!—you’re about as self-conscious as Drina—slumping there with your hair tumbling à la Mérode! Oh, it's very picturesque, of course, but a straight spine and good grooming is better.[…]”