But I canna — no, I canna gae forret,she told herself, wringing her horny hands, and see the puir thing's hie hopes dashed to the ground, and listen in her hearing to the lichtlying and denying to her face o' her richt to her bairns, who are the apples o' her een, and their claim to the Castle and lands o' their forbears when the Duke is dune wi' them.

[…] she watched his lordship’s travelling-carriage rolling once more along the Londonward level of the park […]

There were things that have been on my back for years, acts that the little bird inside of me called my conscience would never let me forget, and that I wanted to brush under the rug, but the rug never seemed large enough.

Mats of mycorrhizal cabling link trees into gigantic, smart communities spread across hundreds of acres.