superannuable earnings
Her work was endless, she carried tubs and cauldrons and pails of heat-blasted sand, sand blasted into liquid glass, up the ladder that had vitrified where her bucket splashed, and tipped the liquid glass into the swimming pool, where, at the touch of the water, it turned into her huge, solid tears.
'Life?' Do you call this 'life,' you barracks lawyer? he growled in his bronzed Adam's apple.
'Life?' Do you call this 'life,' you barracks lawyer?
[…] a rainy Palm Sunday. […] At Grace Church on-the-Hill, the children and the acolytes stood huddled in the narthex; holding their palm fronds, they resembled tourists who’d landed in the tropics on an unseasonably cold day. The organist chose Brahms for the processional—“O Welt ich muss dich lassen”; “O world I must leave you.”
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