Sunpie—in real life, a park ranger and an accordionist who leads a good zydeco band—taunted Harrison […].

Three chairs of the steamer type, all maimed, comprised the furniture of this roof-garden, with […] on one of the copings a row of four red clay flower-pots filled with sun-baked dust from which gnarled and rusty stalks thrust themselves up like withered elfin limbs.

“Do you mean to say all remembrances are vexatitous [sic]? Some are pleasuresome, too, aren't they?”

[T]hey cannot at once name a dozen in the town who own their farms free and clear.