He humbly axes pardon, which is accorded him with a blunt nod.
Ale (to Beef what Eve was to Adam) circulates beneath a dazzling foam, fair as the first woman.
Mr.Tom (for the breach of the rules in mentioning whose name on a night when identities are merged, we offer sincere apologies every other minute), Mr.Tom is toasted.

His parents, who selected that day sixty years ago, for his bow to be made to the world, are alluded to with encomiums, and float down to posterity on floods of liquid amber.
But to see all the subtle merits that now begin to bud out from Mr.Tom, the chairman and giver of the feast; and also rightly to appreciate the speeches, we require to be enormously charged with Ale.

Mr.Raikes did his best to keep his head above the surface of the rapid flood.

He conceived the chairman in brilliant colours, and probably owing to the energy called for by his brain, the legs of the young man failed him twice, as he tried them.

Attention was demanded.