—Upon my honour, Sir, you have tore every bit of skin quite off the back of both my hands with your forceps, cried my uncle Toby⁠—and you have crush’d all my knuckles into the bargain with them to a jelly. ’Tis your own fault, said Dr. Slop⁠⸺⁠you should have clinch’d your two fists together into the form of a child’s head as I told you, and sat firm. I did so, answered my uncle Toby.⁠⸺⁠Then the points of my forceps have not been sufficiently arm’d, or the rivet wants closing⁠—or else the cut in my thumb has made me a little awkward⁠—or possibly⁠—’Tis well, quoth my father, interrupting the detail of possibilities⁠—that the experiment was not first made upon my child’s headpiece.⁠⸻It would not have been a cherrystone the worse, answered Dr. Slop.⁠—I maintain it, said my uncle Toby, it would have broke the cerebellum (unless indeed the skull had been as hard as a granado) and turn’d it all into a perfect posset.⁠⸻Pshaw! replied Dr. Slop, a child’s head is naturally as soft as the pap of an apple;⁠—the sutures give way⁠—and besides, I could have extracted by the feet after.⁠—Not you, said she.⁠⸺⁠I rather wish you would begin that way, quoth my father.

Pray do, added my uncle Toby.