The philosopher's pretext of much occupation masked a bashfully sentimental dislike of the flooding of quiet country places by the city's hordes.

'You're right, right,' said Fleetwood, in sympathy, resigned to the prospect of despising his associates without a handy helper.

He named Esslemont once, shot up a look at the sky, and glanced it Eastward.
Three coaches were bound for Sunbury from a common starting-point at nine of the morning.

Lord Fleetwood, Lord Brailstone, and Lord Simon Pitscrew were the whips.

Two hours in advance of them, the earl's famous purveyors of picnic feasts bowled along to pitch the riverside tent and spread the tables.