We high-schoolers didn't understand why death came in the form of a gorgeous young man with muscles in a skimpy bikini.

The statue broke into chunks.

Carlyle's hero may say, I will be king; but the Christian saint must say Nolo episcopari. If the great paradox of Christianity means anything, it means this—that we must take the crown in our hands, and go hunting in dry places and dark corners of the earth until we find the one man who feels himself unfit to wear it.

I would otherwise have tried to fix a day to meet you at Sir R.W's (with his permission, and your coadjutorship)