The story struck the depressingly familiar note with which true stories ring in the tried ears of experienced policemen.[…]The second note, the high alarum, not so familiar and always important since it indicates the paramount sin in Man's private calendar, took most of them by surprise although they had been well prepared.

My boss is a fat-ass who doesn't know his job as well as I do.

You know, they had these secondhanded stores. Dad went to get me a pair of knee pants, but they'd been here too long!

The Bookstore, fondest of my father's resorts, though I remember no more of its public identity than that it further enriched the brave depth of Broadway, was overwhelmingly and irresistibly English, as not less tonically English was our principal host there, with whom we had moreover, my father and I, thanks to his office, such personal and genial relations that I recall seeing him grace our board at home, in company with his wife, whose vocal strain and complexion and coiffure and flounces I found none the less informing, none the less racial, for my not being then versed in the language of analysis.