"Your tongue goes like the clapper of a mill-wheel.

Sit down here, friend, and partake of this herring.
Understand first, however, that there are certain conditions attached to it." "I had hoped," said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain, "that a tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be attached to it." "Hark to him, hark to him!" cried the little fat man.

"It is even thus, Dicon! Wit, lad, is a catching thing, like the itch or the sweating sickness.

I exude it round me; it is an aura.

I tell you, coz, that no man can come within seventeen feet of me without catching a spark.