There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of children.
a magnetic recorder
a gasping August, whose hot breath thickened round the Cunarder before she got half-way up the harbor.
That sheeted heifer of Prowse’s is all wrong; her coat stares like a hedgepig's. Tell Jewell to go up and bring her in before night.
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