They had made good time, Streight thought, considering what they were using: a chisel, a wooden spittoon to put the dirt in, a clothesline to pull the spittoon back and forth, a candle for the digger, and the rubber blanket for fanning air.

William Conqerour when he invaded this Iland, chanced at his arrival to be gravelled, and one of his feet stuck so fast in the sand, that he fell to the ground.

She wakened in sharp panic, bewildered by the grotesquerie of some half-remembered dream in contrast with the harshness of inclement fact, drowsily realising that since she had fallen asleep it had come on to rain smartly out of a shrouded sky.

Our civilization, with all its aspirations, is industrial and commercial — and there is no morality in that competition worth priding ourselves upon. It isn't Yankeedom more than it is Anglodom.