That's going to cost you a hefty sum.
What follows, as in many Attic plays, is a series of declamatory speeches, occasionally broken up with snatches of dialogue and the songs and dances of the chorus of foreign women, here costumed by Normandy Sherwood in flouncy, flowery festivalwear – even the male singers.
The experiment was abandoned when one fine day spontaneous combustion of the pulverised coal in the container occurred, and a black cloud of the very finely divided fuel rose into the air by the force of the explosion, and was slowly wafted by the prevailing breeze over the town, upon which it descended with the resemblance of black snow, but with the dissimilarity that it did not melt.
“That's life,” she said, and buzzed off to keep her vigil, leaving me kicking myself because I'd forgotten to say anything about the quality of mercy not being strained. It isn't, as I dare say you know, and a mention of this might just have done the trick.
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