Fourthly, in the disgracefullest defeat at Hiftaniola that ever this Kingdom suffered in any age or time.
It took me back across the dim gulf of ages to some happy home in dead Imperial Kôr, where this winsome lady girt about with beauty had lived and died, and dying taken her last-born with her to the tomb.
Streaming a movie prevents any but the most dedicated and well-equipped hacker from making a digital copy (pointing a camera at the screen still works, but hey).
Others proclaim the infirmities of a great man with satisfaction and complacency, if they discover none of the like in themselves. #* 1847 January – 1848 July, William Makepeace Thackeray, chapter 5, in Vanity Fair, London: Bradbury and Evans […], published 1848, OCLC 3174108: […] looking at Mr. George Osborne's pale interesting countenance, and those beautiful black, curling, shining whiskers, which the young gentleman himself regarded with no ordinary complacency, she thought in her little heart that in His Majesty's army, or in the wide world, there never was such a face or such a hero. 1925, F[rancis] Scott Fitzgerald, chapter I, in The Great Gatsby, New York, N.Y.: Charles Scribner’s Sons, OCLC 884653065; republished New York, N.Y.: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953, →ISBN: There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. An instance of self-satisfaction.
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