… That woman is stark mad, Lord Stranleigh. Her own father recognised it when he bereft her of all power in the great business he founded. …

I started — I dropped the glass — the fluid flamed and glanced along the floor, while I felt Cornelius's gripe at my throat, as he shrieked aloud, Wretch! you have destroyed the labour of my life!

When he showed that petulant old warhorse of an artist, Horace Vernet, haberdashed with medals, Nadar had no trouble revealing a seeker of official honors.

We coffee’d in a park, we found a stream and pond for lunch and for Mike Roberts to shoot Stanley’s siphoning water and sort of bumped and lazed along on roads with Brete Hart and Mark Twain names.