I imagine it to be some small parcel of the Steel, which by the violence of the motion of the stroke […] is made so glowing hot, that it is melted into a Vitrum, which by the ambient Air is thrust into the form of a Ball.
[…] as under such physical and moral exhausture, […]
It had come from the west, the shock wave from some almighty earthstorm in lost America, rolling clear across the Atlantic before breaking over Thursday Island. It had smashed down buildings, and sunk the ships whose dead masts could still be seen jutting sadly from the water in the harbor.
An indulgent playmate, Grannie would lay aside the long scratchy-looking letter she was writing (heavily crossed ‘to save notepaper’) and enter into the delightful pastime of ‘a chicken from Mr Whiteley's’.
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