Peter accordingly, seated, near the door, with a tumbler of the nectarian stimulant steaming beside him, proceeded with marvellous courage, considering they had no light but the uncertain glare of the fire, to relate with minute particularity his awful adventure.

He helped Crabbe along to the rough landing-stage, a groaning Crabbe sorry for himself, a Crabbe with a bandaged foot, looking like a gouty uncle[.]

There may have been a vague communality of purpose, but we were never a team.

Tears are his trucemen, words do make him tremble: How sweet is love to them that can dissemble, In thoughts and looks, till they have reap’d the gains!