You Concede Nothing To Me

Some Folk Want Their Luck Buttered.

It Was Still Early, And The Sun's Lower Limb Was Just Free Of The Hill, His Rays, Ungenial And Peering, Addressed The Eye Rather Than The Touch As Yet.

...she Moved About In A Mental Cloud Of Many-coloured Idealities, Which Eclipsed All Sinister Contingencies By Its Brightness.

This Hobble Of Being Alive Is Rather Serious, Don’t You Think So?

Tis Because We Be On A Blighted Star, And Not A Sound One, Isn't It Tess?