Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice […]

And one minor nit: consultants are not telepathic, they're telepathetic.

The ball moved to the eighthman; he waited for it to come out. SOTS scrum-half Jood pounced and began his pass, but swift as he was, Thorn Thompson was swifter. Shouldering his own leaden-footed scrum-half aside, Thorn dived atop quicksilver Jood with a bone crunching tackle. Thorn's heart pounded in his breast, he'd finally bested his hated boyhood rival. Then the whistle went. Thorn stared stupidly at the ball, still at the eighthman's feet.

There was an oil lamp in all the four huts on Okonkwo’s compound, and each hut seen from the others looked like a soft eye of yellow half-light set in the solid massiveness of night.