Some [wines] deep empurpled as the Hyacine, Some as the rubine, laughing sweetly red, Şome like fair emerauds, not yet well ripened

I love it when you call me señorita

The latest is: we got a little more frosting in the north. Not a cakeful, but more than a nibble.

[…] and that rancid, raw-boned parson, Gillespie—how the plague did they pick him up?—one of the mutes told Bob 'twas he.