"Mistress Salt a widow?
When?
How ?" "I thought, maybe, your honour would know about it." "Don't think.

Roderick Salt dead?
Tell me this instant, or--" "He was drowned, sir, in a ditch, they tell me, but two months after he sailed with his company of Foot Guards, in the spring of this year.

It seems 'twas a ditch that the Marshal Turenne had the misfortune to forget about--" "My hat--where is it?
Quick!" Already Captain Barker had plucked the napkin from his throat, caught up his sword from a chair, and was buckling on the belt in a tremendous hurry.
"But your honour forgets the wig, which is but half curled; and your honour's face shaved on the one side only." The hunchback's answer was to snatch his wig from between the apprentice's tongs, clap it on his head, ram his hat on the top of it, and flounce out at the shop door.
The streets were full of folk, but he passed through them at an amazing speed.

His natural gait on shipboard was a kind of anapaestic dance--two short steps and a long--and though the crowd interrupted its cadence and coerced him to a quick bobbing motion, as of a bottle in a choppy sea, it hardly affected his pace.

Here and there he snapped out a greeting to some ship's captain or townsman of his acquaintance, or growled testily at a row of soldiers bearing down on him three abreast.