As conventiongoers filled the two club corridors of downtown Austin, East Sixth Street and Red River Street, their name tags invited new contacts.
Some writers chasing money churn out novels willy-nilly.
Over the broadest there seemed to spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon.
As a fallback, I suppose we can use typewriters if the word processing system fails.
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