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• “[…] Oh, ’t is, eh? Well, I waant to know — kind o’ hawt in here, ain’t it? Phew!” Again the orange silk handkerchief waved clouds of suffocating musk.
• “Mistah,” I drawled, switching on the Texan twang I perfected not in Houston but as a child in New York watching Dallas reruns with my dad. “Ah’m tahrubly sawhruh, but won’t ya tell us what on er-yuhth we’re a-doin’ wrong?” ¶ […] “We were just having a nice cool refray-yush-munt, Officer—isn’t it so hawt?”
• A few of the comments were marginally pervy, but most were touchingly supportive messages. Ur soooo Hawt!!! One comment read. I can’t believe ur not gonna be a ***.
• Amen—sayd the other, I pray god it be so, / For ye haue good ynoughe, this I do knowe well, / Of good marchaundise, so mote I the, / As any is here in this countre to sell, / For his degre; but he is a frayde / That he sholde passe his state or loke to hawt, / Than behynde your backes it shulde be sayde, / Yf he fare amyss, that it were all your fawt.
• […] ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Cassidy,’ I says, ‘ye’ve been up again th’ pa-apers call hawt finance,’ I says.   ‘What th’ divvle’s that?’ says he.   ‘Well,’ says I, ‘it ain’t burglary, an’ it ain’t obtaining money be false pretinses, an’ it ain’t manslaughter,’ I says.   ‘It’s what ye might call a judicious seliction fr’m th’ best features iv thim ar-rts,’ I says. […]
• On it was written, in shaky handwriting: ¶ After thys perfromans, Why Notte Visit / Harga’s Hous of Ribs, / For the Best inne Hawt Cuisyne ¶ “What's hawt cuisyne?” said Victor.
• She looked up suddenly and took a quick breath, as if to resume, but her eyes fell before his, and she said, in a tone of half-soliloquy: ‘I ’ave so much troub’ wit dad hawt.’ She lifted one little hand feebly to the cardiac region, and sighed softly, with a dying languor.
• […] / But fu’ real melojous music, / Dat jes’ strikes yo’ hawt and clings, / Jes’ you stan’ an’ listen wif me, / When Malindy sings.
• “Deah mistus, cry way down in you hawt, but you’ll git inter mistrouble sho’ if dey sees teahs for de po’ Yanks. Dat yo’ will, honey.”
• “Her het ys merey to be,” seyde Roben, / “For a man that had hawt to spende; / Be mey horne we schall awet / Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.”