Not spankings...donkeypunches...at least let him get laid. It's his birthday.

Her brief spurt of communicativeness lapsed suddenly, as if these market-values of her goods might be telling too much about herself.

I supposed he would want to go down with as little ostentation as possible, so took him by the elevator which enters the dining-room without passing through the long corridor known as Peacock Alley, because of its being a favorite place for handsomely dressed fashionables of the national capital.

The ungreening world insistently intrudes as natural fact, as cultural locus, and – so pastoral reminds us – as literary tradition.