St. Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too; I know him for the best of men That ever wallopped barley brew.
There’s palpable peril in the squadron’s ever-mounting bombing runs, and Cathcart’s moving target of a mission quota makes a clever parallel to contemporary America’s Forever War, but the flight sequences wind up acquiring a deadening repetitiousness
Frolic, my lords; let all the standards walk, / Ply it till every man hath ta’en his load.
He was gracious enough to thank her, and briefly riffed through the pages before putting it in his briefcase.
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