The aged man was leaning back in a quaintly embossed oaken chair, on whose carving the arms of his family were gorgeously painted and inlaid.
On, on, you Nobliſh Engliſh, / Whoſe blood is fet from Fathers of Warre-proofe: / Fathers, that like ſo many Alexanders, / Haue in theſe parts from Morne till Euen fought, / And ſheath’d their Swords, for lack of argument.
John is in a coma.
Billy flashing the blade of the stick back down iceward (slap), and rocketing the hard black puck against the plain pine boards staked up against the wall of Mr. H.'s house (ka-BOOM!).
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DiQt
Free
★★★★★★★★★★
