I tell you, Ruth, ’twas like a shot, a boombshell, within doubtin, / Whose ’splosion made the timbers fly, an set 'em all to poutin.

Osmunda swept a curtsey, that yellow hair falling cloudwise to her feet, then turned swift to disappear in the shadow of the turret stair.

It's rare, but sometimes he encounters skepticism in the cops he works with—cops who had a feeb profiler forced on them by their superiors, and perceive this as a vote of no confidence in their own abilities.

They moved at a splitting pace.