She gave her son a harangue about the dangers of playing in the street.

Yea! for such sights and acts do tear apart / The close and subtle clasping of a chain, / Form’d not of gold, but of corroded brass, / Whose links are furnish’d from the common mine / Of every day’s event, and want, and wish; / From work-times, diet-times, and sleeping-times: / And thence constructed, mean and heavy links / Within the pandemonic walls of sense, / Enchain our deathless part, constrain our strength, / And waste the goodly stature of our soul.

The old shop nestled between the newer apartment buildings.

He works as a lab tech.