The truth perhaps - the true truth - is not so much that the mask is hollow as that I don't care to look behind it at the nystagmic flicker of image image image that the nethermind is broadcasting to the faulty receptor of the overmind.
One of the remotest Cambridgeshire stations is enjoying an uplift in business from commuters capitalising on its cheaper park-and-ride benefits, as an alternative to Ely.
The scatological proletarianisms of Don Jonz reflect poorly on your heretofore high level of editorial standards.
Within ten years linches were formed; rain washed down the mould, some accident arrested it at a certain line, and a terrace was the result. Certainly the tendency is for the upper part of such a field to be denuded of mould, to be worked to the bone, i.e. to the bare chalk or stone. But the first makers of linches had no choice. They had to farm on slopes or not at all, […]
to the bone,
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