[T]he said Tresurer and other Officers of the sayd Mynts, to bring with them, at that tyme and place, all ther Pixes, and ther severall Indentures of Coynag, by and for the holle tyme the said Assaye shall be taken.

Mr. Leslie Stephen's style is exactly the opposite to Canon [Charles] Kingsley's. We have no fizgigs of fine writing for fine writing's sake, or for the sake of anything else. God is not adjured nor complimented in every other page. Christianity and muscles find their proper places. It is a perfect relief after the flabby, effeminate rhetoric with which we are now deluged, to read Mr. Leslie Stephen's terse and masculine style.

Max is an expressive huge-eyed black ball of kinetic kittenness who pops against each page’s bright, differently colored background.

“Whatchoo want?” “I'm looking for 251 Durham Avenue,” Rosie said. “It's a place called Daughters and Sisters. I had directions, but I guess—” “What, the welfare lesbians? You ast the wrong chicken, baby girl. I got no use for crack-snackers. […]