The light catches the filigreed tendrils and graceful motion of the jellies, their orange bodies umbrella-ing along like fairy parasols come to life.

I've got my fuck you money.

It was a little past mid-day when the four-horse stage-coach by which I was a passenger, got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about the Cross-Keys, Wood-street, Cheapside, London.

Though he dwells mostly on the affairs of men — which would make the same-sexness an obvious result — instances in which women suffer punishment are usually engineered by other women.