Liz, he says, why trine for a make, when you can wap for a winne. I'm no dimber mort, I says. Don't ask you to be a swell mollisher, sister, coves want Miss Laycock, don't look at your mug. So I begin to sell my mother of saints.

Hartman leaned into his work like he would lean into a winter blizzard, Grandma's tearful conniptions merely the whining of the wind.

Paysheets are composed of paylines, and each payline represents a paycheck.

The groundsels have leaves covered in wool for insulation […]