This gave me a hint, and I went knee-deep, and sometimes neck-deep, in the Red Weed. The density of the weed gave me a reassuring sense of hiding.

The sore was abscessed and filled with pus.

I find the enduring existence of high heels both a frustrating mystery and a testament to the triumph of women’s neuroses over their mobility.

A pig with a pasty face, so I had said, Squealing for cookies, kinned by poor pretense With a noble house. But the little man quite dead, I see the forbears' antique lineaments.