I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.
Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.
The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.
I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don't know what I did before that. Just loafed I suppose.
Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.
