We're such a small bump in the road that driving through Sylvester is like hitting an armadillo at 60 miles an hour, drawls local businessman David Register.

Her deeply hennaed hair, almost black at the roots, straggled loosely down both sides of her long face.

The face which emerged was not reassuring. […]. He was not a mongol but there was a deficiency of a sort there, and it was not made more pretty by a latter-day hair cut which involved eccentrically long elf-locks and oiled black curls.

He found his way into home decorating, and there he discovered a small tower of black rubber pails. […] Satisfied—or as satisfied as a non-expert in bucketry could be—Faustino bought the thing.