You say you're Muslim, you say you're Rasta / Say you don't eat pork, don't eat pussy / Liar, you're just an actor / Blud, you're not on your deen

Macs drive lacs.

Malene tried to digest what it meant that he was looking bosslike this morning.

Rachel was on the phone in the drawing room, talking to Gerald in Westminster, and seemed to be getting the reassurances she needed; she was oddly placable.