Old Nico wreathed the tomb of maiden Melitê.

The pilot would sing out, “Ready about ship,” and the seamen would return answer, “Ay, ay, Sir,”—again he would sing out, “All ready,” and would be answered with “All ready, Sir.”

Come summer, the brasserie terraces teem with stereotypical blonde Sloane Rangers sipping rosé; an artier crop of whatever's stylishly edgy will have taken up residence outside the Royal Court Theatre.

… how running himself our President underkeeps with such high animals how the british Queen in Her Majesty's own language.