Alexia gave in to his demanding touch, but only, of course, because he sounded so pathetic. It had nothing, whatsoever to do with her own quickening heartbeat.

[She] lost her patience, a thing she was all too prone to misplacing.

Captain Niall, having apparently resigned himself to losing his quarry, was savaging her horsehair petticoat into teeny, tiny shreds. "Really, what did my poor petticoat do to offend?

What did you do?” “Well, you see, there was this pot of tea, simply sitting there…” He trailed off. “Useful thing, tea,” commented Lyall thoughtfully.

Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyall suspected him of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.

Poetry can cause irreparable harm when misapplied

You are about as covert as a sledgehammer.