There is a snaky gleam in her hard grey eye, as of anticipated rounds of buttered toast, relays of hot chops, worryings and quellings of young children, sharp snappings at poor Berry, and all the other delights of her Ogress's castle.

[…] our inadequate agency and our passivity may narcissistically ensnare us into believing that we are indeed in charge of the whole complex of events and thus determine a pseudoactive sense of futile activity.

Most of the men were balding and had poochy beer bellies.

And did I mention that he is Canajan, eh?