Rough men brought pickle bottles full of nuggets. Mysterious dirty-looking calico bags were opened, disclosing small quantities of water-worn flaky gold, which had been washed out of the beds of rivers with a cradle.
Collectionitis strikes in the most unexpected quarters: it has metamorphosed a butcher into an expert on ancient porcelain and a cab driver into an Orientalist.
One might view this attempt to ensure the scarcity of a multiple as both a marketing ploy and form of elitism.
Though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.
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