It is one of the most trying things about this life, this necessity of laughing uproariously when vinous old men say things that are dirty but not funny; else one is written down as a prig.

On a motorway, you should never pass another vehicle on the inside.

Doeſt thou forſake the deuill and all his workes? / Aunſwere. I forſake them.

With Akeley’s permission I lighted a small oil lamp, turned it low, and set it on a distant bookcase beside the ghostly bust of Milton; but afterward I was sorry I had done so, for it made my host’s strained, immobile face and listless hands look damnably abnormal and corpselike.