Mere words cannot express the wisdom of his face. His brow, neither wrinkled as the newborn, nor deathbed smooth. The line of his jaw, more permanent, solid, than diamond or crescent moon.
Oh, my God. Lord Almighty! Lend me your stairway to heaven. We need counsel again. Virago is dead, in black, she let her hair down and rode a long winding. By fire, light, her heart
Cor blimey Charlie, how’s yer father’s? And yer mam? Bit of ox tongue, brisket, to go with them eels? Take a butcher’s at this lamb. Looking’s for free son. In yer dreams.