The transcendent case before us is absolutely sui generis.

Nobody could call Major Flint, with his bawlings and his sniffings, the least mysterious.

It's not me, Sally. It was written by Anne Bradstreet. […] I can never match up them New Englishwomen, John. Just leave me alone!

Her lips hardly moving, every feature steady, she undercurrented my narrative with ejaculations in French, Russian, Italian.