It is generica that plagues the outskirts of every medium-sized city with its strip malls and fast-food stops and traffic lights; it is generica that always persuades me to drive off quite confidently in the wrong direction.

Ah! now we come to business! Barber, who's dead? Alderman Croten, sir. Tut-tut. Croten gone? Yes, sir; palsy took him at a ripe age. And Abel's gone, the Town Crier;

She wasn't going to sit there and watch ultracolossal nerve in action, even though she'd consciously chosen to run the risk of her life.

She was to be given a state funeral, followed by interment at Arlington National Cemetery.