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As he reaches the broad stream that divides him from the land he would reach, he pauses and tries to think of any decent excuse that may enable him to walk with a bold front up to the cottage door. But no such excuse presents itself. Memory proves false. It refuses to assist him. He is almost in despair. "Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, I think." "And you will sing me something?".
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Conrad
"What is her name?" "He has," says the duke. "But he has his reward, you know: nobody likes him. By the by, what horrid bad times they are having in your land!—ricks of hay burning nightly, cattle killed, everybody boycotted, and small children speared!" "Then you didn't go out much in Ireland?" she says, thinking it more graceful to change the conversation at this point. "Besides, it may be an exaggeration," suggests Geoffrey "he may not be so bad as they say.".
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