The Sergeant stood hulkingly, breathing heavily, by the end of the bed.

Heaven pity you with such a thrashingfloor for world, and its draggled dirty farthing-candle for sun!

a man who mounts the Hustings, must not allow himself to be sore-boned, or he invites his opponents to 'touch him on the raw,' not in the exercise of their malice, but their power; an election is a saturnalia."

I'm taking the GRE on Sunday.