He was possessed of infinite pluck, and now that he was dying could bear it well.

But he had loved no one particularly, had been dear to no one in these latter days of his life, had been of very little use in the world, and had done very little more for society than any other horse-trainer! But nevertheless it is a bore when a gentleman dies in your house,--and a worse bore if he dies from an accident than from an illness for which his own body may be supposed to be responsible.
Though the gout should fly to a man's stomach in your best bedroom, the idea never strikes you that your burgundy has done it! But here the mare had done the mischief.
Poor Caneback;--and poor Lord Rufford! The Major was quite certain that it was all over with himself.

He had broken so many of his bones and had his head so often cracked that he understood his own anatomy pretty well.

There he lay quiet and composed, sipping small modicums of brandy and water, and taking his outlook into such transtygian world as he had fashioned for himself in his dull imagination.

If he had misgivings he showed them to no bystander.