Even in his Ma's womb, you would have had to define Spud less as a foetus, more as a set of dormant drug and personality problems. He'd probably draw the polis onto them through knocking a saltcellar out of the Little Chef.
Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony […]
And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will.
Few men can look down from a great height without creepings and crispations.
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