[T]he Chicken had been tapped, and bunged, and had received pepper, and had been made groggy, and had come up piping, and had endured a complication of similar strange inconveniences, until he had been gone into and finished.
An old sinner, in shape of a khansamah, is the genius of the place, and has rarely aught else to tempt the tired traveller with than a “sudden death”—a fowl caught running in the yard, and dished up forthwith; […]
Rick had a halfful gallon can in his hands.
[…]for many miles a rank growth of whinberry bushes densely matted with heather and bog grasses holds you knee high and sometimes much more.
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