“Right then," Campbell began, his tone so civil it was offensive. "May I have your name for the record, Miss...?""Eliza Braun," Eliza sneered. "Here, I'll spell it for you -- B-U-G-G-E-R-O-F-F.”

“If there was magic in this world, it happened within sight of the three bases and home plate. All the gems in my world that decorated the walls and floors of dragons' lairs, the sword hilts of privileged princes, and crowns worn by emperors and kings, were nothing compared to the beauty and splendor of the diamond in Wrigley Stadium. It wasn't just a yard with dirt, chalk lines, bases, and a small hill in its center. Wrigley was a field of dreams. Dreams of eternal glory for the men who ran to the outfield, who took their respective bases, and prepared for battle against those who would dare enter their hallowed realm. Dreams for the kids in the stands, all wanting to don a uniform, kiss their moms goodbye, and wield their bats as enchanted weapons destined to knock the cover off the ball. And for the adults who had already selected their lot in life, Wrigley made the dreams of past innocence, lost wonder, and the promise that there was something inherently good still left in the world, come true.Yeah, corny as hell. But all true.”

“She groaned as her face turned to press against the rosewood floor. "Welly, remind me to order a better mattress for my bed. This one is far too firm.""Oh, Eliza," Wellington gasped, now remembering why he was in these lush surroundings. "No broken nose, I hope.""S'all right," Braun slurred. Her voiced dropped to a whisper. "My ample bosom broke my fall.”

“be aggressive, BE-BE Aggressive! B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E”

“A, B, C, Č, Ć, D, Đ, DŽ, E, F, G, H, I, J, K,L, M, Ne ponašam se za pjesmu, NJ, O, P, R, S, Š, T, U, V, Z, ŽDa li da napišem pjesmu ili ne?”

“How d’you spell ‘belligerent’?” said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It can’t be B — U — M —”“No, it isn’t,” said Hermione. “And ‘augury’ doesn’t begin O — R — G either.”

“She sighed heavily before whispering, “I’m still a bit confused as to what we are waiting for.” “We are waiting for one of the constants in our world, Miss Braun,” Wellington assured her. “At the end of every opera, there is the grand finale, where the music continues its gradual crescendo, the tenor and tempo rising ever so gradually for that pinnacle of dramatic tension, that moment of anticipation—” “Welly, are you talking about opera or about sex?” His next words caught in his throat. For a woman of higher tastes and seeming refinement, this woman could be utterly crass.”