under the appellations of Tory, Jacobite, highflier, and other cant words
You felt the power of the Olympic's twenty-nine boilers transmitted upward through the strakes of the hull.
‘Olivia, that's a fine posh name for Castlebay,’ he said approvingly. ‘Ah, they're sick of these Davids and Clares and Gerrys, the dull old names,’ Clare laughed. ‘I hope they won't call her Olly,’ David said. ‘Make your own nickname then,’ Gerry said. ‘Livy?’ Clare suggested. ‘Liffey even?’ Gerry said.
On lifting it up he was surprised by an unwonted feeling of stickiness; but when he held the instrument to the light, the reason revealed itself to him immediately in the form of a dollop of congealed chicken-broth, nicely rounded to the shape of the cup, which shot from its resting-place, with a clammy thud, on to his clean shirt-front, and then proceeded to slide rapidly down inside his dress waistcoat, leaving a snail-like track, dotted with grains of rice, behind it.
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