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"He is my master's servant, sir; and he wears a patch over his eye; and stutters a little in his speech." These kinds of details were plainly beyond a frightened lad's power of invention, and Lackington was more satisfied. "And what was the message that you were to give to the folk and the priest?" "Please, sir, 'Come, for all things are now ready."
His voice while clear and distinct, is dry and unsympathetic. He speaks monotonously, with many pauses, at times he almost stutters, as if an obstinate tongue refused to obey orders, and as if he had to wrestle for the adequate expression of his thoughts. He rocks to and fro, somewhat restlessly, and in no relation to what he is saying.
One passenger is both amusing and annoying. This odd-geared Teuton hails from Hamburg. Like most stuttering unfortunates, he is a chronic talker. He stutters garrulously in several tongues. There are serious impediments in his pumping gestures. His tongue, hands, and feet, like stringed orchestra, seem trying to arrive at an amicable understanding, but never find the right chord.
He often hesitates, almost stutters, and sometimes even makes a slip of the tongue. He seems to be wrestling with his thoughts, while his words seem to ascend against their wish, for he makes a very brief pause after every two or three words.... He speaks without gestures, pathos or intonation, and without emphasizing any of his words.
If you mean that smooth-faced cuss that stutters and lives on Braden's Hill, I called on him, but he was out. If you see him, tell him to come up to Wedderburn, and I'll talk with him." Mr. Ball made a gesture to indicate a feeling divided between respect for Mr. Crewe and despair at the hardihood of such a proposition. "Lord bless you, sir, Job wouldn't go." "Wouldn't go?"
His enthusiasm, which somewhat improved Ingigerd's temper, was of the sort that stammers and stutters and cannot find the words to express itself. Frederick looked at him in disgust, but the next moment started when he recognised in his behaviour the marks of his own former obsession.
"When did this happen?" he asked. "What?" Antony waved to the poster. "Oh, that? Last Christmas. It was rather fun." Antony began to laugh to himself. "Were you good?" "Rotten. I don't profess to be an actor." "Mark good?" "Oh, rather. He loves it." "Rev. Henry Stutters Mr. Matthew Cay," read Antony. "Was that our friend Cayley?" "Yes." "Any good?" "Well, much better than I expected.
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