And you think I snore!

The Minister of War lay upon his back, his distinguished corpulence severely dislocating the chaste simplicity of the bed-clothing. Athwart his shelving chest, fat hands were folded in a gesture affectingly naïve. His face was red, a noble high-light shone upon the promontory of his bald pate, his mouth was open. To the best of his unconscious ability, he was giving a protracted imitation of a dog-fight; and he was really exhibiting sublime virtuosity; one readily distinguished  individual howls, growls, helps, against and undertone of blended voices of excited non-combatants.

(from The Lone Wolf, by Louis Joseph Vance)