. . . I'd shared Langtry with him, behind his back, and done my duty by pretty Daisy — as who hadn't ? Not La Keppel, though; she was after my time, worse luck, not heaving into view until I'd reached what Macaulay calls the years of chicken broth and flannel, when you realise how dam’ ridiculous you'd look chasing dollymops young enough to be your daughter, and seek solace in booze, baccy, and books. Regrettable, of course, but less tiring and expensive.
Flashman and the Tiger, p.223, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.
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