And as he, too, seemed disinclined for chit-chat, we stood for some moments like a couple of Trappist monks who have run into each other at the dog races.
There could be no honor in a sure success, but much might be wrested from a sure defeat.
No fury more righteous than that of a sinner accused of the wrong sin.
Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow, The small raine down can raine. Cryst, if my love were in my armes…