That chestnut colt with the white legs would be worth five hundred all out if we could sell him with his right name and breeding, instead of having to do without a pedigree.
(Rolf Boldrewood, Robbery Under Arms, 23)
Using priors for a series of seemingly whimsical experiments, he calculated such probabilities as the fraction of London taxicabs with LX license plates; men smoking pipes on Euston Road; horse-drawn vehicles on Gower Street; chestnut colts born to bay mares; and hounds with fawn-spotted coats.
(Sharon Bertsch McGrayne, The Theory that would not Die, ch. 3)
As I headed downstairs to the food hall, I passed a mirror and noticed the colour of my hair. It seems that every time I look in the mirror these days, I see a new patch of white. My hair is turning salt-and-pepper. My husband doesn’t like it. He hints that I should dye my hair; I know he dyes his. He comes back from the hairdresser every month and it’s a new shade of chestnut. But I like my colour. I like the way my new white hairs are coarser than the old ones—they hold my curls better, so that they cling to my head.
(Gretchen Shirm,Having Cried Wolf, ‘Small indulgences’)