Slavically accented English
Samuel guzzled some golden liquid from a hip-flask plucked from a pocket of his brocaded dark blue jacket (which clashed outrageously, as every item of his clothing always did, with every other, with his orange cravat, maroon shirt, “M' favourite wesskit,” – taut over his farctate belly – of mustard yellow with pink buttons, red britches held up by another cravat, this one green, for a belt, orange socks – “To match the first cravat, of course!– and silver-buckled shoes so shiny black as to be ugly).
Xander: I'm sick of being the guy who eats insects and gets the funny syphilis. As of this moment, it's over. I'm finished being everybody's butt monkey!
Britain's Peregrine Worsthorne, 36, is a tough-minded Tory journalist with scant regard for preconceived opinions—his own or anybody else's.
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