Making long cross-country drives, Coster-Mullen said, had given him plenty of time to reëxamine the three-dimensional diagram of the bomb that he keeps in his head, like a Buddhist monk contemplating the Karmic wheel.
From what bulk-ridden strumpet reeking home? Saving your reverend pimpship, where d'ye ply?
And if I weren’t here now, Driscoll and Ann wouldn’t have a Chinaman’s chance.’
To the west of the river lay the country in which I went Columbusing — the enchanted desert whose southern boundary was where the sky reached down and merged with the earth curve, and whose northern limit was the Harqua Hala range […]
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