He had a paper-bag under each arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of breath.

I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along.

They had a five-year occupancy on the house.

Then he wrote: God is Dead and I Am a Cunning Linguist. McLean walked over and asked the man why he was writing these things. Can't ya read, mister? snarled the little man.