Single-sex clusters of Bostonians made their boisterous way through the streets, hoping to collide with their opposite numbers.
Consider what a rough worme-eaten table / By well-mix'd colours is made ſaleable; / Or how toad-houſing ſculs, and old ſwart bones / Are grac'd with painted toombs and plated ſtones; […]
When the door of the mathom shop is closed and the Inhabitant leaves the print of his footsteps for a moment on the wooden stair, things pause. There is no movement, not even of time. The mathoms listen until, downstairs, carpets and rugs swallow the noises of living, …
Don't ever use the hood on your anorak; and, if you do, for heaven's sake don't pull the string tight so that you peep out like a little baby in a siren suit.
