Before long the slant and lunge of his big body and his restless, powerful movements made his expensive clothes stretch and crumple until they molded themselves on him and began to resemble the Levi's he might once have worn on the range or the range; by the same process, in the surge and pound of his speeches, the elegant and disciplined vocabulary he had so laboriously acquired speeded up to a wild crackerbarrel whine or slowed down to a twanging, gunsmoke drawl.

The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels.

The Murder Hole is the thing for me—that tells no tales—a single scuffle—a single plunge—and the fellow is dead and buried to your hand in a moment.

On May 29, they are to have a nonbinding cultural ceremony at Luttrellstown Castle, an event space in Dublin, where Simone Walsh, a civil family celebrant, is to lead the couple in a Celtic handfasting ceremony in which they bind their hands together with a ribbon.