That his wealth was blood-stained added to his glamour and certainly did not disturb the avaricious mind of any shebeen queen as she plied liquor to buttocky girls dancing the kwela in her shanty-saloon.
[…] Lance, after having made some shew of helping him to his horse, ran back to tell his master the joyful intelligence, that a lucky accident had abated Chiffinch's party to their own number.
I have also argued that he is guilty of straw manning Copi and that his charge of shoddy reasoning against Kahane makes use of an equivocation on the concept of fallacy.
Butt. You sit at the table and shovel down course after course of condimented, trucidated trash; and there's your poor tortured stomach, on bended knee at the foot of your œsophagus, lifting up its hands to Heaven and crying, “My God, what next?”
