Bram Stoker

[…] a half-breed what they nicknamed "Splinters" 'cos of the way he fixed up her papoose which he stole on a raid […]

One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any gentleman “such-like as yourself, squire,” to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; […] The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was compelled to deal with the result in an ex post facto manner.

Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aërial gambolling.

"I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long this horrible thing lasted I know not, but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh blood!"

The flies, lethargic with the autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room.

As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.

This one is a woman, with all a woman’s wit, combined with the heartlessness of a cocotte.