"I am," I said To no one there And no one heard at all Not even the chair "I am," I cried "I am," said I And I am lost, and I can't even say why Leavin' me lonely still

No one had ever heard of anyone that sounded like Luther,

A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless

I know,” said November. He was pale and thin lipped. He helped October out of the wooden chair. “I like your stories. Mine are always too dark.”
“I don’t think so,” said October. “It’s just that your nights are longer and you aren’t as warm.

Everybody here dreads the wintertime because of the chair lift. It devalues the properties, because no one wants to live here.

We haven't heard from them. I think no one is likely to mistake our prize for the Booker Prize.