The beachcombings – the wood, the metal, the stones – were more than functional, collected and sorted and arranged as things that were lovely in their own right, artefacts.
Liz waved. She leaned toward Carter. “Can you please uncatch my hair?” she hissed.
You are a lunkhead! How could you be so stupid?
'Twas a bad leg allowed me to read the Pilgrim's Progress, and Mark Clark learnt All-Fours in a whitlow.
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