If, in addition to our own amusements, we have, as we jogged carelessly laughing along, brushed away one tear of dejection and called forth a smile in its place — if we have brightened the pale countenance of a single child of sorrow — we shall feel almost as much joy and rejoicing as a slang-whanger does when he bathes his pen in the heart's blood of a patron and benefactor; or sacrifices an illustrious victim on the altar of party animosity.

I'm no paedophobe, but I'm quite relieved that the children are back at school.

We took the powdered milk and hydrated it until it was drinkable.

“Back atcha, mister,” I say, holding my hand over my eyes to block out the sun.