She noted with tenderness all the makeshifts: the darned chair-arms, the patent rocker covered with sleazy cretonne, the pasted strips of paper mending the birch-bark napkin-rings labeled Papa and Mama.

On the opposite side of the concourse is the triple-counter ticket office and three self-service machines which are adjacent to a large customer service counter and the gateline.

She comes—she comes—God's sake speak her fair and canny, or we will have a ravelled hasp on the yarn-windles.

As she bounced around the exceptionally small tent, I realized how cold it must have been last night. This was from the white frosted tips on Nikita's black fur. Only half of her body wasn't icily frosted (the half that had obviously been pressed up against my sleeping bag during the night).