"'Shabash! coach-wan,' exclaimed the sahib; 'thou art a man, indeed, and shalt have Shere Bahadoor's skin as recompense for the hurt to thy stomach. Bid him come again.'
The wailings of a maiden I recite, / A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight. / Such ſtrains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat, / Nor the gay goldfinch chaunts ſo ſweet a note, …
Those people are not Africans. They don’t know a damned thing about Africa— with names like Shaniqua, Shaligua, Mohammed, and all that crap, and all of them are in jail.
Choppy waves cottoned the bay.
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