The scarified wasteland looked like a battle had been fought there — which, in fact, it had.
It's an oasis in the midst of a concrete jungle,' said Dowd, a gaunt, ruddy-faced Norman Rockwellesque figure.
Here be two arblasts, comrades, with windlaces and quarrells — to the barbican with you, and see you drive each bolt through a Saxon brain.
I wish you wouldn't cavil, Hilda.
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