A great iron pot swung over the fire by a chain, and the lid danced on the top and allowed a savoury odour to escape.

Wogan sat himself down before the fire and his clothes began to steam.
"You laugh at my paint, sir," said the landlord.

He was a fat, good-humoured-looking man, communicative in his manner as a Boniface should be, and his wife was his very complement.

"You laugh at my paint, but it is, after all, a very important thing.

What is a great lady without her rouge-pot, when you come to think of it?
It is the same with an inn.