The fuck you think you are?! ― Who the fuck do you think you are?

The night was now pitmirk; the wind soughed amid the head-stones and railings of the gentry, (for we must all die,) and the black corbies in the steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a fearsome manner.

A passage from one of her [Rosa Luxemberg's] letters written from prison to a young friend, Dr. Hans Diefenbacker, in the spring of 1917 will suffice to give an inkling of this passion: …

He made a thouſand uggly Faces, / VVhich (as ſometimes in Ladies caſes) / VVere all deſign'd for Airs and Graces.