“I is sad; absotively mis'able. What you reckon kind of pitcher they is takin' down there?”

The murderer of Marcia's husband stripped off rubber gloves, thrust gloves and envelope deeply away, then fled in a stroll northward toward an exit different from the place of entry ... to a hurrisome eye just another foolhardy New Yorker defying the statistics of Central Park's nighttime crime.

You always do this to me! When we were at your mother’s, you said that… – OK, OK, …

In order to grant the rich these pleasures, the social contract is reconfigured. […] The public realm is privatised, the regulations restraining the ultra-wealthy and the companies they control are abandoned, and Edwardian levels of inequality are almost fetishised.