He bet she wouldn't care if he was plumb ragged.

They were one and indivisible; she was _his_, just like his right arm; she was his boy and his girl; his son-daughter.

The old gunman choked and his tonsils ached abominably.

He hoped he wasn't in for another attack of quinsy sore throat.

But--why lie to himself?
The truth was, he wanted to cry and he wanted to laugh at the same time, and the impulses were crossed in his windpipe.