Martin was a thoroughly amiable man, a man of wide reading, but when he came to write he mounted upon a pair of stilts, unusually lofty stilts, and staggered along at a most ungracious pace, with an occasional awkward lurch into colloquialism, giving a strikingly false impression of himself.

“And she hates being managed - that is not the word I want. What is it, Maturin?…”

“He reflected on his hitherto reflection that soldiers and sailors were, upon th…”

“He sat on as the sun's rays came slowly down through the trees, lower and lower…”

“The words 'Very finely played, sir, I believe' were formed in his gullet if not…”