CHRIS is hauled out on a litter. Morphined, his eyes watching it all from somewhere deep in his brain.

[…] the general disposition of those memoir writers and detailers of state secrets (even when there is no malice) to sacrifice truth for the sake of a more striking effect.

Day was breaking, and the sheets of talc in the walls were filled with a vinous colour.

An’ the wust was, that what wi’ the rumpus an’ her singin’ out “Pillaloo!” an’ how the devil was amongst mun, havin’ great wrath, the Lawyer’s sarmon about a “wecked an’ ’dulterous generation seekin’ arter a sign” was clean sp’iled.