The night's chilly breath tickles up my neck and finds my ear, whispering secrets only the wind knows.
But sons are a different matter to a man. More a duty than an indulgence.
He frowns. "A dance with the carnivorous Felicity? Why? Has she eaten all the other available gentlemen?
The uncertainty of our future is nothing more than a fog of breath on a windowpane.
You are truly Satan's sequined spawn.
Does my new feminism make me look fat?