Immediately on returning home, highly satisfied with the result of his visit to Mrs. Belmour, Melliphant found on his table a letter from Sir Howard, over which he cast his eyes with precipitation.

You're not top of the class in English, he points out. She licks her teeth, unconcerned. Maybe you should give me grinds, Connell, she says.

He’d arrived at the perfect time: when authenticity was more about the truth behind feelings rather than facts, when the now-accepted genres “auto-fiction” and “creative nonfiction” were blooming, and when our ideas of subjectivity were being shaken by an explosion of “reality” television.

…beg our clerical friends to remember that quack medicines are of two kinds,… …with his poisonous nostra in the form of doctrines, upon those of whose…