I austerely directed her attention to the stage.

It was a metaphorical fly whose buzzing I had stopped.
The young fellow was he who had pointed me out in Hyde Park to his companion, and lightly assured her that I was as mad as a dingo dog.
From the moment after the phrase's utterance to that of the slapping of my knee, it had been altogether absent from my mind.

Now it haunts me.
It reiterates itself after the manner of a glib phrase.

I am glad I am not in a railway carriage; the cranks would amuse the wheels with it all night long.

As it is, the surf tries to thunder it out on the shingle just a few yards away from my window.