She began to suspect something when he put off sine die their appointed tryst; when his once voluble electronic correspondence dwindled to enduring silence, she knew that it was over, that he was a traitor, a scoundrel, a real Benedict Arnold, a truly perfidious specimen; soon enough he was just another of her many dumpees.
Tachycardia set in when she saw his John Hancock beneath what was obiously a rather spoony billet-doux.
With a calliopean squeal the preposterous sports car tore away from the kerb, the brutish gargantua at its wheel, causing Mrs Twiddlesnick to breathe forlornly, "People don't change," voicing once more the tired abderitism which made up the whole of her sorry weltanschauung.
This gargantua of the zaikai had one weakness, a tragic sense of noblesse oblige: something that certainly wouldn't hinder our ragtag collection of start-up kids and venture capitalists.
Johnson turned up in the office with that Struwwelpeter look that told you the Big Fromage himself had rung to rouse him out of bed, peradventure to muckrake something juicy on this McFarlane affair.
I'm no Mrs Grundy, but this troglodyte deserves to be shut up in some kind of carceral compound and fed on skimmed milk: no butterfat for him.
``Bonzer!'' said Jones, affecting an Australian accent: I had no idea who had been the instigator of this antipodean bovarism but I suspected the nexus lay in those letters he had been receiving par avion.
Professor Thumplewit had published thousands of papers on the behaviours and biology of various extremophiles, and he had a bevy of gnathonic PhD students working beneath him, but to extrapolate from this that he was possessed of any kind of intradepartmental mana would be to paralogise, for his colleagues, to a man, considered him quite out of his mind.
As she rolled out of the lumpy bed, dropped yesterday's schmatte over her head, and prepared a little yokeag for the day, yesterday's sermon still rang in her ears; he had been perfectly luculent: the juggernaut of progress could not be resisted on one's own; we must bind together to maintain the unquestionable benefits of this simple way of life; everyone's resolve must hold true.
Devildung was an old grandee of the schmatte trade and a respected feinschmecker to boot: as he mounted the dais most of the gathered trendsetters turned to revere him, or at least looked up from their phones.
The ditches have run dry down to their cunettes,
No drop from cloudland has fallen in years,
Abyssal Poseidon a parched seabed treads
In a greasy old schmatte weeping dusty tears.
Pure rankism prevented Postlethwayt from joining O'Donnel as he futzed about beneath the umbra of the broken down vehicle's bonnet, but he did allow himself from some space off to make a few noises sympathetic to the imprecations flowing therefrom.
He thought of himself as possessed of a rather hard-boiled sensibility, but the butcher's being unable to supply him with his usual measure of gutbread and tripe potched violently at his carefully cultivated ataraxia, and he very nearly flew off the handle.
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