What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?

Words, particularly in a play, should have the texture of a crisp, autumn apple.

It gave me a moment of exquisite satisfaction to find myself moving away from civilisation in this rude canvas canoe of a model that has served primitive races since men first went to sea.

In a good play every speech should be as fully flavored as a nut or apple.

At first I threw my weight upon my heels, as one does naturally in a boot, and was a good deal bruised, but after a few hours I learned the natural walk of man, and could follow my guide in any portion of the island.

A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

What is the price of a thousand horses against a son where there is one son only?