The obese woman, ungainly on land, moved with a kind of cetacean grace in the water.

These are my connections, my attachments. Maybe all I really am is the sum of all these connections, these fearful longings and graspings.

Some of her [Elizabeth Barton's] Revelations were no better than ſilly Tales: Such was a certain Tale of Mary Magdalen, delivering her a Letter from Heaven, that was limned with golden Letters: which indeed was written by a Monk of St. Auguſtines, Canterbury: and another at Calais.

If his [Donald Trump's] detailing was productive, it was somewhat undermined by a final, typical Trumpian flourish of pie-in-the-sky rhetoric.