“The fine old fellow,” as a Northern contemporary of ours patronizingly calls him, certainly rolled out his sesquipedalians with a majesty previously unknown, and gave a fine organ-like swell to his full-blow periods;

Ben's hangovers just make him look more beautiful, in a blitzed, cheekbony way.

They passed slowly under the jacaranda trees beginning to bloom lavender over their heads.

Thee bisn't playin with I any more. (You are not playing with me any more.)