Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness Travelling across the wet mead to me here, You being ever consigned to existlessness, Heard no more again far or near?

Then she walked away, not even stopping to listen to the servant's fearless denunciation of her as a chittering, raving, rixy, louching, haggaging moil, an nor a bent th' worserer nar hot sh' art ter be, th' wapper-eed deave-nort. Giggling akether! shrieked the old woman, wild with resentment […]

I'm cooking bangers and mash.

Blame her not poor Woman, she loves nothing so well as a black ace.