You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.

All those pi, priggish Malvolios going about the place with do you mind, some of us have got exams tomorrow, actually expressions on their pale prefectorial little faces. Vomworthy.

And as if to confirm what cycling shorts had suggested, the magazines that once determined what would make a girl shaggable now explained to me why I and most of the other sixty per cent would remain unshagged until our buns could crack the porcelain.

2nd Arm. … Enlighten me, good Andalusian, in like fashion as thou bringest out the polish upon thy noble master's gold-inlaid lambrequins [helmet-draperies]. 1st Arm. … I will reveal to thee why I scrub this harness with a joyful spirit. It is because it will have to stand no rougher blows than sun-strokes …; whereas there were times when it would go to my heart to expend pumice, emery, and wash-leather upon it. Now, see this dint here—not in the back, idle Catalan, but here, betwixt the brasset and hauberk.