That says something about the nature of man—his fantasies of death that get enacted into the slaughter of man by man—kinfolk or strangers in droves—on every possible mindless occasion.

After this, we saw a great Troop of Women upon the High-way to Hell, with their Bags; and their fellows, at their Heels, ever, and anon, hunching, and Justling one Another.

When Timothy and Julia hurried up the staircase to the bedroom floor, where a considerable commotion was taking place, Tim took Barry Leach with him. […]. The captive made no resistance and came not only quietly but in a series of eager little rushes like a timid dog on a choke chain.

Well, you're a hot mess and I'm falling for you, and I'm like hot damn, let me make you my boo, […] You're a hot mess, I'm loving it, hell yes!