Her lips were tightly glued together, her chin protruding, her whole lay-out that of a girl who intended to stand no rannygazoo.

In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted enough, and not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery Book […]. But the principle always failed us by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between redness and cinders.

[…] they administer Pearles, and Corrals being beaten to dust or dissolved in distilled vinegar, or the juice of limons, and again dryed, and solvable in any potable liquour:

Hello? Hello? Is that zoo? … Well, nobody's talking baby talk. Well, I'm the man that called up about the leopard. You don't have to do anything about it. It's all been a mistake. Yes. Uh … Oh, well, stop them.