to turn all things by one's touch, not to Midan gold, but putrescence.
You know things are not going to work out well for a petty criminal when, stranded in a fortlike compound occupied by three young women who look like American Girl versions of 19th-century psychiatric nurses and talk like the weird sisters in “Macbeth,” he innocently inquires about Internet access.
That accounts for my having the dress, but it don't account for the piece that you left sticking to the rose-bush under Mrs. Lander's bed-room winder, which piece I took off that morning, and which piece I matched with the dress after you pitched it at me over them bannisters […]
The yearly allowance of clothing for the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen shirts—such linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of
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