Both these girls had beautiful brown curls quite in contrast to my carrotish blonde straight hair.

Four women dance together, shuffling their feet, arching over one another's bodies and running across the stage before stopping dead with shuddery little recoils of the chest.

This displacement also partly explains the banalisation of the scientific 'marvellous': since the excitement of the moon landing, nobody cares much about Russians circling the earth for six months or a Pioneer photographing Saturn.

[…] I did espie Where towards me a sory wight did cost*, Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray, And Iacob staffe in hand devoutly crost, Like to some pilgrim come from farre away.