To the right of the Bay immediately behind the reef, rose a pair of uncouth cone-like hills, their heads bonneted in lowering clouds.

This is a wonderful place: a cream-ewerful skimmed off the great pan of London.

Several circumſtances have concurred to confirm the belief that this wretched lunatick was the identical Marquis de Brunoy, who had been buried in the gloom of a priſon for nine years, whilſt the world thought him dead. The mad democraticks began to ſpread reports that the Count de Provence was privy to this tranſaction; and that it was this Prince who had obtained the Lettre de Cachet, by virtue of which this wretched man had been ſo long deprived of the light of heaven.

I think you and I are on a different wavelength.