He rides a white-ankled horse.
Jed Maxwell: See you next week then. We'll have that pint. Alan Partridge: Yep. Jed Maxwell: ...go and see my brother. Alan Partridge: No way, you big spastic! You're a mentalist!
Her father was a fisherman, and her family fed itself by crofting--age-old, small-plot, subsistence farming—living in a modest gray pebble-dash house, surrounded by a landscape of properties local historians and genealogists characterized with terms like “human wretchedness” and “indescribably filthy.”
Far too confidently, we assume that perpetrators are human beings radically different from ourselves, brandable as totally evil or as fanatical or deranged, that we are in no moral respects like them and they in no moral respects like us.
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