“His pursuer was closing in. Audible footsteps sent frantic signals down his spine to his feet by way of his bowels. The call was to run, and if the feet didn't, the bowels would.”

“...I would run to close those last few feet between us - reckless as always - and I would be in his marble arms, finally safe.”

“Raymond stood as though someone might have just opened a beach umbrella in his bowels.”

“What Comfort can the Vortices of Descartes give to a Man who has Whirlwinds in his bowels!”

“This time he was underwater, running, feet sinking deeper and deeper into the seabed. The surface was within reach if he raised his arms, but he couldn’t get his head out of the water. He had to breathe. The compulsion to inhale was huge. But he couldn’t, musn’t. Still he ran, getting nowhere, each frantic step burying his feet in the wet sand until he was no longer able to lift them. Finally, with one great gulp, he opened his mouth, his lungs to the flood of seawater.”

“Elizabeth sheathed her sword, knelt behind him, and strangled him to death with his own large bowel.”