In the corner of the table is a frosted claret-jug, standing, with freezing politeness, upright, his hand on his hip, waiting to be poured out.

In the centre, the grandfather of watermelons, half-hidden by peaches and pomegranates, the whole heaped over by a confusion of ruby cherries (oh, for Lance to paint it!) Are you hungry, though?
If so, here is a mould of potted-head and a cold wild duck, while, on the sideboard, I see a bottle of pale ale.

My brother, let us breakfast in Scotland, lunch in Australia, and dine in France, till our lives' end.
And the banquet being over, she said, as pleasantly as possible, "Now, I know you want to smoke in the verandah.

For my part, I should like to bring my work there and sit with you, but, if you had rather not have me, you have only to say that 'you could not think,' &c.

&c., and I will obediently take myself off." But Sam didn't say that.