I dare say, Mr Wauverley, ye never kend that a' the eggs that were sae weel roasted at supper in the Ha'-house were aye turned by our Davie; — there's no the like o' him ony gate for powtering wi' his fingers amang the het peat-ashes, and roasting eggs.

Visage rough, deformed, unfeatured, and a skin of buff.

The cameras were out and we were all trying to get pictures of each other, which we then spent a further half an hour trying to Instagram to make us look as good as possible

Who won, huh? Nobody. Used to be sex was the only free thing, No longer. Alimony… palimony… it's all financial. Love is an illusion.