Would you like me to..?  No, no, I had best not.  The moment has passed.

Smashing, sir.  Simply smashing.

It might have profited at the end of the narrative not from a bit of slap-stick with a flying automaton and a majestic leap into the starry sky, but instead from pictures of the (one can only assume) hundreds of thousands of dead and injured unfortunates crushed beneath masonry and steel.  To display such astonishing…

Oh, dear sir!  Those who do not care do not articulate their indifference with such fervour.  Rather they silently read the title of the article, shrug, lazily adjust their spectacles and turn their attention elsewhere.

Oh?  Exactly what compounds are made available to the good women of Poland?  Opiates, I assume?  Yes, that much is certain… I would not be at all surprised by an overland route to the Orient for their supply.  May I also assume the presence of laudanum?  If there are particulate opiates then certainly there must be…

Any British woman of any station whatsoever who abandoned their waking mind at the mention of mariners would spend the better part of their lives blissfully unconscious.  Everything which even brushes against the sea is a favourite topic hereabouts.  I swear not an hour of my life has passed without the mention of…

Mariners, perhaps?

After all the trials that we have shared, do we still seem foreign to you?  If you do not know us by now, then never shall you.

Here now is my pledge- ten pounds sterling each to the writers of 'Game of Thrones' should they contrive by whatever means to have Rory McCann utter that word.  Narrative continuity be dashed!

Am I then so remarkable a sight?  You have made me feel quite like a unicorn.  A farthing for you, kind sir.

A gentle diva, rainy colt.
  Perhaps because I like to ride in the rain?  It is imperfect.

Why, whoever are you gentlemen speaking to?  There is no-one there!

I fear poor Mr. Miller is battling his demons, Mr. Decker.  Spare a kind thought for him, for once there was a good and clever man.

I am struck by a strange connection between Messrs. O'Neal and Moore!  Both are castigated for statements they have made which, if heard spoken, would likely be taken as being in jest or tinged with affection.  Both write about topics created by others!  And both have a shrine to Ba'al hidden behind a false wall in…

It means that you over-consume and exhaust your supply before you are able to make your weekly trip to Limehouse to acquire more, thereby leaving you gripped by the shudders for some hours… perhaps even days!

It takes either great audacity or great talent to follow the esteemed Mr. Moore.  Until G. B. Shaw, few English playwrights dared to publish for fear that the shadow of the Bard would fall upon them, obscuring them utterly.  Shakespere's talent all-but obliterated the advance of an art-form for century.  Mr. Moore is…

I wonder if they mean dear mister INSERT Walter WRITER of the Fawlsey-Winthrope WRITERS, or that dreadful old misanthrope INSERT Edgar WRITER of the Devonshire-Pickton-Bloughton WRITERS.  We simply do not have enough information to say decisively!

Yes… yes!  Capital idea!  We shall all have some laudanum.  As for my absence, I have been consigned to the role of silent observer due to a great tide of responsibilities that, for a while, bore me away into that vast and silent ocean of obscurity which must one day claim us all, no matter our wit or consequence. …

Very well!  I shall be silent no longer.

Here, to salve your delicate nerves, is a translation of the above article into appropriately Victorian language.