Not bothering to turn around and not missing a mouthful, Myrtle comforted her with threats of I'll warm your bottom; I'll turn you over to your dad; I'll lock you in the truck; I'll send for the bogey man — all of which Darleen ignored […]
I'll warm your bottom
I'll turn you over to your dad
I'll lock you in the truck
I'll send for the bogey man
Lady Frederick: Oh lord, I wish I were eighteen. [She sinks into a chair, and an expression of utter weariness comes over her face.] Gerald: I say, what's up? Lady Frederick: [Starting.] I thought you'd gone. Nothing.
Collectivity was treated as an end in itself: We were here, as ruangrupa exhorted us, to “Make friends, not art!”
The authors were students and ex-students and nonstudents, those who had arrived at the university not to study in any traditional sense (grab the goodies and run); but had come to sit in the harder school of scant survival and pamphleting and writing and demonstrating and resisting the war.
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