The sidelong whiplash of his arm sent the boomerang soaring, pushing the sky to the horizon until the blade just hung there, a black slash on the sun so far away it seemed not to move at all before it came whirling back larger and larger: would it hit him, would he die — and you ducked down, terrified, clinging to his thigh, its deathspin slowing as it coptered softly down and he snatched it from the air.

Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: / Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, / Or like a lazie Threſher with a Flaile, / Fell gently downe, as if they ſtrucke their Friends.

I was feeling very warm and Jesusy before buzzing for him to be brought in and, standing behind the desk, I looked at him now with love. He looked back at me as though he believed he could see into my soul, his large black eyes glimmering with apparent amusement.

Coordinate term: social class