Holy Madelina, what sound was that? My nerves are absolutely aspen leaves.
Sweet, my lady marchioness; subdue this terrific sensibility; yonder sound, fair excellence, was a—mere nothing; some ruffianly soldier, for drawing his sword in holy week condemned (as one of my rascals informed me) to be shot at seven o'clock.
Dear me, Marquis, was that all? What a noise they make about trifles. Pray, continue the dance.