London is like a shelled corncob on the Derby day, and there is not a clerk who could raise the money to hire a saddle with an old hack under it that can sit down on his office-stool the next day without wincing.
The great tamburlaine, that reigned not so many years hence, a captain no less bloody than valiant, which also subdued so many countries and provinces, being demanded why he so more than tyrannously used his captives, whereunto he answered, forwrapped [deeply suffused] in choler: …
Turn down Willing's Alley, to the westward, between tall warehouses, and you come to an iron-gated archway, on your right, which leads you through a building and into a nooked courtyard— and here, in this nooked and unsuspected corner, is the church!
And then she put the coffin right out on her front porch. Jim told everyone he'd built it kind of roomy since Bobby Lee was on the stout side, but that it better get used quick because sycamore tends to warp something terrible.