The Scotchman, who assisted as groomsman, was of course the only one present, beyond the chief actors, who knew the true situation of the contracting parties.

When Ewan McGregor was but a wee lad in a sleepy town in Scotland in the ’70s, some 3,200 miles away in a Manhattan townhouse on East 63rd Street, Roy Halston Frowick was living on a diet of baked potatoes with beluga caviar, chilled Stolichnaya, rent boys and mounds of cocaine piled in Elsa Peretti silver ashtrays.

[…] Watt, faithful to his rule, took no more notice of this aggression than if it had been an accident. This he found was the wisest attitude, to staunch, if necessary, inconspicuously, with the little red sudarium that he always carried in his pocket, the flow of blood, to pick up what had fallen, and to continue, as soon as possible, on his way, or in his station, like a victim of mere mischance.

They urged you with a decree of the ſage and ſevere judges of Athens, and you cite them to appear for certain Paragogical contempts, before a capricious Pædantry of hot-livered Grammarians.