'Pick it oop' said the Sergeant, abrupt-like, but cool, But Sam with the shake of his head, Being that thou knocked it out of me 'and, Let thou pick the thing up, instead

"If you call me V.S. once again," she said, "I shall scream - I warn you!" Sam patted her arm. "You need a butter-pie," he said kindly.

Shut up, he explained,

'Sam, Sam, pick oop tha' musket,' The Sergeant exclaimed with a roar, Sam said 'Tha' knocked it doon, reason tha'll pick it oop, Or it stays where it is on't floor

"My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, "Oh, shit." My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch's Scream. After a moment I got up and opened the front door.
"Honey," I said, "what'd you just say?"
"I said, 'Oh, shit,'" he said.
"But, honey, that's a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?"
He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, Mom." Then he leaned forward and said confidentially, "But I'll tell you why I said 'shit.'" I said Okay, and he said, "Because of the fucking keys!

Maybe,' he said hesitantly, 'maybe there is a beast.'
The assembly cried out savagely and Ralph stood up in amazement.
'You, Simon? You believe in this?'
'I don't know,' said Simon. 'But . . .'
His heartbeats were choking him.
The storm broke.
'Sit down!'
'Shut up!'
'Take the conch!'
'Sod you!'
'Shut up!'
Ralph shouted.
'Hear him! He's got the conch!'
'What I mean is. Maybe . . . it's only us.'
'Nuts!'
That was Piggy, shocked out of decorum.
'We could be sort of . . .'
Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.

Sam, Sam, pick oop tha' musket,' Lieutenant exclaimed with some 'eat, Sam said, 'he knocked it down, reason he picks it oop, Or it stays where it is, at me feet

Sam, Sam, pick oop the musket,' Said Captain, for strictness renowned. Sam said 'He knocked it doon, reason he picks it oop, or it stays where it is, on the ground.

Sam's like a fight trainer. He shapes you up, he psyches you, he draws everything out of you. He's subtle, though, yet baroque, and I want to get into that baroqueness. Like the other day, during a scene in which I was supposed to be answering the door and registering surprise. Well, it was the end of the day and I wasn't acting very surprised, so he smashes a beer bottle behind me, right out of camera range. I mean, Christ, I nearly jumped out of my skin. But he got what he wanted.

Magnus snapped his fingers again, menacingly. "Get up."
"Or you'll be the next one to go up in smoke," said Simon with relish.
"There's no need to clarify my finger snap. The implication was clear in the snap itself."

Sam’s heart felt as if it were being licked by a cat.

They need to read the Scriptures; where it says in Matthew, chapter 4, verse 17, it says: "Shut the fuck up." That's the King James version, by the way.

Maybe, he said hesitantly, maybe there is a beast.
The assembly cried out savagely and Ralph stood up in amazement. You, Simon? You believe in this?
I don't know, said Simon. His heartbeats were choking him.
[...]
Ralph shouted. Hear him! He's got the conch!
What I mean is . . . maybe it's only us.
Nuts! That was from Piggy, shocked out of decorum.

...DAMNATION!'

No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring sobriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.

The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled — cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.

The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.

I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches...'

The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault.'

It was mine, I suppose,' Emerson said mildly.

Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?'

No,' said Emerson.

He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)