Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round-shot passed high above the roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood. Treasure Island (1883), Robert Louis Stevenson
They have been recently propelled out of cultdom and into wider acclaim by a confluence of zeitgeists.
Opposite is the emblem of the Gospel, a maiden, brightly looking heavenwards, her head endiademed, the budding lily in her hand.
So have they hamstrung the valor of the subject by seeking to effeminate us all at home.
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