He recalled, in passing, the sweetness in his lap, her round little bottom, her prasine eyes as she turned toward him and the receding road.

He wrote three sevens on the paper.

[O]ne minute this Jihadi John was struggling to get by, and get accepted, in drizzly England, unemployed with a mortgage to pay and a chip on his shoulder, and the next he stands in brilliant Levantine sunlight, where everything is clear and etched, at the vanguard of some Sunni Risorgimento intent on subjecting the world to its murderous brand of Wahhabi Islam.

Fortunately for her, the judgment she is awaiting will depend in no degree upon her dramatic capabilities, good or bad. Lord Garmoyle has gone far away from the scene of his activity as an amatorculist.