"I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.
- That so? Davy Byrne said.
He went towards the window and, taking up the petty cash book, scanned its pages.
- I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap." (U8.831)