... Sir Wat irritably shoved from one knee a heavy jowl which confidingly and automatically replaced itself, chumbling. 'May have I to go yap yap, yap, all day with the same tale? I've told you. I'm sick.'
Dame Janet gave a bark of laughter. 'Sick to the tune of two flunders, a pike, a cod, a quart of claret and a quince pie. Hah! You'll do yourself a hurt Wat, forcing the nourishment down at all costs, and you a sick man.'
Buccleuch snapped, justifiably riled, 'It's the English I'm supposed to be ailing for - or am I to live on sops in wine in case Grey of Wilton's sitting up the kitchen lum?' ....