The bride, with her lavender-laced décolletage, stepped gracefully past the old man and his young attendant as the sailor continued his tale of dead men beeked by a ruthless sky, a waste of water, but no dram to drink, and the creeping rhabdomyolysis that could have destroyed him utterly, were it not for the Pilot’s timely and dramatic rescue.
"Ploce, ploce everywhere, nor any stop to think!" roared the undownable poetry professor at his recalcitrant class, continuing, "How many times do I have to tell you namby-pamby nitwits that it takes more than platitudinous ploce-placement to placate this pedant, it takes style!"
Corpulent and rose-complexioned, Arthur cogitated on the provender that was yet absent from his table, the unerring intempestivity of the Saturday afternoon Fresh Direct delivery, and the monepic grumblings of his belly: “Food. Hungry. Angry...”
As Jack roared “Ready to board!” Stephen turned to his companion to explain Jack’s ratiocination: “Excuse my friend’s tendency towards epanorthosis, but he does have an aversion to long-windedness; for example, when the Admiral issues a ukase commanding the men to hone their offensive implements, tighten their suspenders and check their shoelaces, Jack doesn’t consider that will inspire the appropriate comportment in them for a successful attack on a 64-gun xebec cruiser.”
Mrs. Deever, ever solicitous of her friend’s opinion, didn’t comment on Martha’s periphrastic description of her yard sale as “An opportunity for strangers to pick at the remnants of a life spent in thankless toil before the grave finally closes over you,” but simply concentrated on placing fiery organza lampshades, albums by Eric Clapton and David Bowie, their cardboard sleeves flecked with wear, and poor Arthur’s lopsided John Lennon glasses in attractive formations on the decorating table set up over the yellow-spotted grass patch in front of her home.
Olga had developed a distaste for Gusev after that malingering oaf's fatuous animadversion of her rhopalic admonishment "I am but your lover, nimrod, forgive unwanted attention."
Despite my banter and bonhomie the maudlin child remained in the hole - my savoir-faire exhausted I had as lief gone after her with a stick as continue with my imprecations, but somehow I brought myself to whisper, "Sophie, darling, please come out, it's getting late."
Nonplussed, the young prince grasped the chapfallen skull and looked directly into its gaping eye sockets and tongueless mouth: when finally he spoke, his words were bitter with consternation, and his turncoat eyes betrayed the loss of that savior-faire that he, and Denmark, had once believed to be his birthright.
Petrovich, a drunken one-eyed leviathan of a man, listened to the piffle of Akakiy Akakievitch with as much savoir-faire as his aggravated temper could muster, carefully considered Akakiy's request that he, Petrovich the tailor, replace the worn parts of the overcoat with a gallimaufry of shreds and patches, then roared, “No, it is impossible. It is a wretched garment!”
Of all his self-destructive moments, Jack Keal reflected, this must be his chef-d’oeuvre: nursing a roborant rye whiskey at 5am in Harry’s, last refuge of the middle-aged flaneur, as Linda winnows every trace of his life from the apartment they shared until that final tussle yesterday – and over what, the coastline of China?
His sententious pronouncements had earned Pooh a deserved reputation as the leading pundit of the Hundred Acre Wood, and engendered an admirable esprit de corps in his leading myrmidons, Piglet, Eeyore and Tigger.
At the soirée Lucy found herself caught up with disputatious Christian in some discussion about dresses into which, eager to maintain her amour-propre, she pitched herself head-first, but soon she found herself unmasked, a Bolly-induced hebetude stepping coarsely into the place of her normally sophisticated banter as she proclaimed "Couture? Mere vanity, sir! A peacock's tail pinned on a Cornish hen, nothing more, Mr. Dior," then burped modestly into her glass.
I felt like the shame of the guilty rapporteur that day as I watched Morty step up to the plate wearing that tristful expression: the truth, known only to him, me and the Commission that had appointed me , was that this would be his last game for the Weequahic High School Baseball team; the last time that he would bring his own brand of sartorial pride to Newark Field; the last time we would see the elegance of his stride and the way he held his hands, that on those cool spring days had seemed to elevate the dusty gray and red stripes of the Weequahic uniform almost to the level of couture.
Not wishing to be seen as a shill for the pro-prosecution lobby, Fin refused their offer of expenses – he paid for the dinner with Mrs. Sorensen out of his own pocket and secured her trust with quiet condolences, until finally through her tears she told him of the way Linus and Anna looked up to Miss Peterson, how she had loomed in their imaginations, at home and at school, as some Brobdingnagian figure, a giant among them, so that when Miss Peterson made the temerarious – no, the foolish, incredible – oh, incomprehensible! decision to try to take the children home in those conditions - videlicet the blizzard, the biting winds, the heart-stopping cold – they followed her without hesitation, their trusting hands locked in the treacherous grip of the newly appointed fifteen-year-old assistant schoolmistress.
With characteristic economy Oxford struck out the ghost-writer’s original stage direction "Bring on the mad girl, clad cap-a-pie in a macédoine of flowers to berate the martinet king with lyrical claptrap," and replaced it with just two words: "Enter Ophelia."
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