Oh, Herbert," she said pleadingly to her silent husband, "you must make him marry her! Call for the parson immediately! Look at them... they are...," she sputtered, "canoodling!

The bowl landed, in glorious perfection, atop the head of Mrs Barnaclegoose, who was not the kind of woman to appreciate the finer points of being crowned by trifle.

What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? I forbid you to be ill, wife.

Oh, Lady Maccon, I am unreservedly in love with her. That black hair, that sweet disposition, those capital hats.

Conall,” “Aye, Alexia?” He looked up at her. Was that fear in his caramel eyes? “I am going to take advantage of you,” she said

I may be a werewolf and Scottish, but despite what you may have read about both, we are not cads!

No, Lord Maccon was riproaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.