the pools of Solomon

He had reached the center of the impressive lobby—“the place where your real dignity shows,” as he puts it—when he felt a violent clump on the back, heard a voice say: “Why, hello, Joey.” The words were not spoken by Mr. Asterbilt or any of the few be-jewelled and be-tuxed guests passing through the lobby at the late hour; they came from a bell boy.

She ordered a plate of barbecue with a side of slaw.

Yet for a time the nation was again placed between the democracy of the levellers and the despotism of the Stuarts, — between the hammer and the anvil.