The nearer moon, hurtling suddenly above the horizon and lighting up the Barsoomian scene, showed me that my preserver was Woola.
I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags.
The British prime minister continually survives the chaos of his choices—much to pundits’ chagrin. How?
By the light of the now brilliant moons I saw that he was but a shadow of his former self, and as he turned from my caress and commenced greedily.