Fuck with me now, bitch; let's see you freestyle! Talk is cheap, motherfucker, if you really feelin' froggish, leap.

The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling […]

Shoals of letters are published every week from all parts of the Union telling stories of the unhappiness produced by marriage, sometimes mere bursts of ill-temper, often cynical shamelessnesses, occasionally stories of deep pathos.

Delicate perfumes floated through the theatre; at the penny dukey, fried fish and hot codlins reminded you more of food than fantasy.