Senior players were sceptical to begin with, startled by Conte’s aggressively interventionist training sessions, practice constantly stopped by that barking voice, points of positional detail brutally drilled.
[…] I began to round up the scattered empties which, without so much as a ‘gardyloo’, I chucked from the window into the backcourt.
He was the churliest of the churls; Little he cared for king or earls; Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions
Trev walked over and leaned down, dropping a tender kiss on her forehead where the skin was raw and scabbing from the cut.
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