l: how about a tennis ball? where's a tennis ball? i'll hit her with a tennis ball! that'll just sting a little...
for example, i used to be more tolerant of oblique aspersions.
the lagoon was thick with many-tinted wavelets; a continuous roaring of the outer sea overhung the anchorage; and the long, hollow crescent of palm ruffled and sparkled in the wind. opposite our berth the beach was seen to be surmounted for some distance by a terrace of white coral seven or eight feet high and crowned in turn by the scattered and incongruous buildings of the palace. the village adjoins on the south, a cluster of high-roofed maniap's. and village and palace seemed deserted.
there is only one unchangeable custom observed in Ivan's kingdom: the man with toil-hardened hands is always given a seat at the table, while the possessor of soft white hands must be contented with what is left.
A LOST OPPORTUNITY.
"then came peter to him, and said, lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and i forgive him? till seven times?"
oho!’ quoth my enemy, ‘you are as full of doubles as a fox, are you not? but i see through you; u see through and through you. you would change the venue, would you?’
‘i may be transparent, sir,’ says i, ‘but if you’ll do me the favour to stand up, you’ll find i can hit dam hard.’
we came at the same time to a crossing of lanes. the branch to the left was overhung with trees, deeply sunken and dark. not a ray of moonlight penetrated its recesses; and i took it at a venture. the wretch followed my example in silence; and for some time we crunched together over frozen pools without a word. then he found his voice, with a chuckle.
‘this is not the way to mr. merton’s,’ said he.
'no?’ said i. ‘it is mine, however.’
‘and therefore mine,’ said he.
again we fell silent; and we may thus have covered half a mile before the lane, taking a sudden turn, brought us forth again into the moonshine. with his hooded great-coat on his back, his valise in his hand, his black wig adjusted, and footing it on the ice with a sort of sober doggedness of manner, my enemy was changed almost beyond recognition: changed in everything but a certain dry, polemical, pedantic air, that spoke of a sedentary occupation and high stools. i observed, too, that his valise was heavy; and, putting this and that together, hit upon a plan.
‘a seasonable night, sir,’ said i. ‘what do you say to a bit of running? the frost has me by the toes.’
‘with all the pleasure in life,’ says he.
his voice seemed well assured, which pleased me little. however, there was nothing else to try, except violence, for which it would always be too soon. i took to my heels accordingly, he after me; and for some time the slapping of our feet on the hard road might have been heard a mile away. he had started a pace behind me, and he finished in the same position. for all his extra years and the weight of his valise, he had not lost a hair’s breadth. the devil might race him for me - i had enough of it!