At that time there were still indians camped on the western plains and late in the day he passed in his riding a scattered group of their wickiups propped upon that scoured and trembling waste.

[…]the formidable old Charles Soames—who scared even me, when I met him later on, with his wall eye, monocle and spongebag pants.

That man is a mystery.

TV is very scorchio: a parade of go-go girls in bikinis mouthing songs as they prance around the studio.