But just there a small hairy terrier exploded out at the gate, like a floor-mop impelled by some sort of internal combustion, which sent him off into a frenzy of yapping, incessantly jerked backwards by the explosive force of his own detonations.
[…] her husband's increased and more frequent storms of passion, unfollowed by any halcyon and honeymoon suings for forgiveness […]
The pale, chill glimmering of earliest morning was faint in the east, from which the clouds were slowly breaking; there was just light enough to enable her to find her way.
But if you’re determined to reply, tip your hat to the ever-classy Dionne Warwick — pre-Psychic Friends Network, anyway — and tell the rude catcaller: “Walk on By.”
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