Single-sex clusters of Bostonians made their boisterous way through the streets, hoping to collide with their opposite numbers.
When the door of the mathom shop is closed and the Inhabitant leaves the print of his footsteps for a moment on the wooden stair, things pause. There is no movement, not even of time. The mathoms listen until, downstairs, carpets and rugs swallow the noises of living, …
Don't ever use the hood on your anorak; and, if you do, for heaven's sake don't pull the string tight so that you peep out like a little baby in a siren suit.
Consider what a rough worme-eaten table / By well-mix'd colours is made ſaleable; / Or how toad-houſing ſculs, and old ſwart bones / Are grac'd with painted toombs and plated ſtones; […]
