I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
Oh Ireland my first and only love Where Christ and Caesar are hand in glove!
If the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I suppose I could call myself a nationalist. As it is, I am content torecognize myself an exile: and, prophetically, a repudiated one.
I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life.
A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.