Take your Typhoon up there and swat the annoying mosquito out of the sky by challenging the infantile pillock to a classic World-War-II-era dogfight like a real man, to show them who the real king of European airspace is.
There is a slight twist of the torso to the proper right, and the head is turned a little further.
Without half the indulgences British troops have, were these poor miserable wretches left to their fate, not an allowance of spirits to render their water palatable, except new rum, which is not improperly termed kill devil.
kill devil.
The clever fakir is all through our life; but I can imagine the keen enjoyment it must be to those fellows who gather crows on street corners—for they have brains—to watch the simple, open-mouthed gull pungle up his money, and buy his valueless stuff.
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