He sat up when we mentioned the increased pay package.
I was awakened by a noise of eating. My protectors, knife in hand, were consuming their meat and bread, occasionally tilting their bidons on high and absorbing the thin streams which spurted therefrom. […] The older [man] appeared pleased with my appetite; his face softened still more, as he remarked: Bread without wine doesn't taste good, and proffered his bidon. I drank as much as I dared, and thanked him: Ça va mieux.
Bread without wine doesn't taste good,
Ça va mieux.
No, 'tis a THOUGHT sprung ftom a ray divine, Which will through clouds of lowring critics shine: When in a clear innubilous serene, The soul's abstracted, purg'd from dross and spleen;
When he ran dry, he switched to a high-velocity handgun. Gut-shots, chest-shots.
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