He finally looked at his eye. It was black and swollen and almost suited him. It was a fine specimen; such a beautifully placed punch. No story he could make up about an accident - walking into a tree or lamp-post - would be credible. It could only have come from a punch. The eye was swollen equally above and below. It was rather fetching. He had always looked twice at men with black eyes. The boy who punched him had talent.

from Whispering Campaigns by John Dixon