Sentence The Fourhundredandeightieth

The Duke of Albany's sententious blandishments were like so much vestigial bumfluff as to persuade no-one, least of all an Edinburgh Writer to the Signet, like Peter Boo, who rolled his eyes in derision and rolled his Rs in mirthful parody, at which the stout party collapsed like a deflated balloon and Ranulph Ochan'toshan leapt to his defender's aid: “smelling salts!” he demanded, and Boo thrust a small vial of ammonia into his hand with the injunction: “nil by mouth!”