She has a feel for music.

The chip smells like nothing, but tastes like a smörgåsbord that’s both confusing and arousing, like Steve Buscemi. Flecks of spring green – the kind generated from radioactive waste – coat the unwieldy triangles. The seasoning is a kaleidoscope of Day-Glo dust particles that perishes under saliva and tongue.

The courtyard was lit with bright sunlight and Asenath and the two towheads were there amusing themselves.

And here, were it worth the labour, I could charge my margents with Hebrew enough (borrowed from Alatius) as Sectaries uſually Do Theirs with Greek and Latin, (I know a Little, and ’Tis little enough of that language,) but I Slight ſuch Pædantry, too manifeſt a bragging of Nothing.