No, cast by Fortune on a frowning coast, / Which can no groves nor happy vallies boast;
The Phobosians are encamped outside Grand Central Station, barely a block away.
He strangled his wife and dissolved the body in acid.
[…] tears choked the utterance of the dame de compagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and her poor old red nose in her pocket handkerchief.
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