I'm leaning against a General Electric fridge of such purring, juddering, aerodynamic aspect that were I to unsuck the rubber-flanged door and climb inside, settle myself comfortably in amongst the bowls of chopped liver, the packets of frankfurters, the crinkly heads of lettuce, it might well lift off for the Forbidden Planet.

You would be amazed at what is hidden by those kaftanlike cloaks and veils that Moroccan women wear!

How does Usain Bolt run at that speed?

“How do you do, Mr. Huxter,” the Prince of Fairoaks said in his most princely manner—“I hope you are very well.” “Pretty bobbish, thanky.”