Bob Munchy, as a forlorn hope, once threw his clodding leister at a drowning man, floating down the Yarrow in a high flood, and hauled him out with the lyams unharmed.
An anarcho-syndicalist commune
I confess it, as a besetting infirmity of mine, that I am too much of an Eudæmonist: I hanker too much after a state of happiness, both for myself and others[…]
Every one of them was heavy with the artichokey smell of butter lamps.
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