The murderer of Marcia's husband stripped off rubber gloves, thrust gloves and envelope deeply away, then fled in a stroll northward toward an exit different from the place of entry ... to a hurrisome eye just another foolhardy New Yorker defying the statistics of Central Park's nighttime crime.

In order to grant the rich these pleasures, the social contract is reconfigured. […] The public realm is privatised, the regulations restraining the ultra-wealthy and the companies they control are abandoned, and Edwardian levels of inequality are almost fetishised.

“I is sad; absotively mis'able. What you reckon kind of pitcher they is takin' down there?”

You always do this to me! When we were at your mother’s, you said that… – OK, OK, …