This is doubtless the reason who our quadragenarious friends sometimes surprise us with their matrimonial ventures.

After another three-quarters of an hour we pick up eleven children, nearly all of them objectionable on the score of smell. The air we breathe over and over begins to be so foul that it nauseates me.

They love the scenery near their summer home, but have no desire to mix with the local yokels.

Jackie: Oh, Janey Mack! I wish I had.