I suppose there are no end of 'ologists who will frown at my penchant for firearms and swear that it makes me a mother-fixated, bed-wetting psycho with a small penis.

So much for the desire of these interesting creatures to—we don't say marry, because the word is not genteel, and is rather discountenanced at the college—but to connubiate.

And that old dame said many an idle verse, / Out of her daughter's heart fond fancies to reverse.

What's worse, I suppose I girlishly trilled all this to him, and too often. […]