Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a black curtain.
Gustave Flaubert. Madame Bovary
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go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could be made out from them.