I have been reading up some European Scientific reports—friend of mine, Count Fugier, sent them to me—sends me all sorts of things from Paris—he thinks the world of me, Fugier does.
— from The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today by Charles Dudley Warner

He's th' railway detective!" "Meaning that they're out to round up somebody, eh?" said Casey.
— from Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters by A. M. (Arthur Murray) Chisholm

"It is a thing impossible to reason upon," she exclaimed, sadly, and pressing her hand to her brow.
— from The Death Ship: A Strange Story, Vol. 1 (of 3) by William Clark Russell

"Well, well, Miss Silence, these 'ere young folks have come round us slick enough," said he.
— from The May Flower, and Miscellaneous Writings by Harriet Beecher Stowe

And Hall’s “Labeo,” the elusive author of a lascivious poem, {228} who writes under a pseudonym and who is always prepared to shift the responsibility upon somebody else, seems eminently characteristic of Francis Bacon.
— from Baconian Essays by Smithson, E. W. (Edward Walter), active 19th century

Not surely, as it has been too often done, in bitterness, and wrath, and clamour, and evil-speaking, with really unjust suspicions, exaggerations, slanders, (and those, too, anonymous,) in the columns of the public prints.
— from Sermons for the Times by Charles Kingsley

Assuming the latter to be the case, we ask our readers, with the most perfect confidence, whether the whole of the argument which he has attempted to rear upon such exceedingly slender foundations, is not, from beginning to end, a tissue of exploded fallacies?
— from Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 68, No 422, December 1850 by Various

Fruit below medium, ventriculous-pyriform, sides rather unequal; skin extremely smooth, light yellowish-green turning to greenish-yellow, often washed with a slight brownish blush; second for dessert, first for the kitchen; end of Aug. for two weeks.
— from The Pears of New York by U. P. Hedrick

Round us, stronger, ever stronger, Sweeps the hostile horde; If the strife continue longer, We shall lose the ford.
— from Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems by Arthur Weir