We have a room for a non-smoking tenant.
Extract from a letter to Horace Walpole, written from Florence, in Horace Walpole's Correspondence with Sir Horace Mann, ed. W. S. Lewis, Warren Hunting Smith, and George L. Lam (1960), p. 446. […] You will laugh at me, I suppose, when I say I don't understand Tristram Shandy, because it was probably the intention of the author that nobody should. It seems to me humbugging, if I have a right notion of an art of talking or writing that has been invented since I left England.
The last of wool is twelve sacks.
There are at the outset several ways to communicate poorly. The majestic example is that of the fellow who did not want to alarm his folks because he had broken an arm in intramural foot- ball. He wanted to break the news gently: “I should get the cast off my arm Tuesday, and the doctor says. . . .” That is as far as Mom gets before fainting, calling Dad at work, or calling you at the dorm in the heat of franticity.
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