You must forgive the poet’s license I take. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. “I always notice that people find it very easy to believe what they want to believe, and you see I’m not in the least popular. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house.
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