An ivy-clad farmhouse surrounded by trees, it stood on the sunny side of a sloping hill at the foot of which the Darigle river curved its way through gold-furzed inches to disappear under a stone bridge into the woods beyond.
Then he commenced to talk, really talk. and inside of two flaps of a herring's fin he had me mesmerized, like Eben Holt's boy at the town hall show. He talked about the ills of humanity, and the glories of health and Nature and service and land knows what all.
'He's an utter wankpuffin, Sloane. A twatbadger, a cockwomble, a dickbiscuit. He is a miserable piece of knobcheese and I hope he spends the rest of his life regretting what he did to you. […]
My fat rolls around in folds.
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