Here are some new sentences I wrote for it this week, beginning on New Year's Day:
Tuesday: “Are those your only clothes, man?”
Wednesday: “Aye,” William said with a snap to his voice that betrayed to Robert how sorely his playful obtuseness provoked his friend, “Robert the Harper, Robert of the Road, even Robert of Wiltshire would mean nothing to Beckford’s ears. But a Robert Marcel on his Dorset manor?"
Thursday: He spoke softly, and knew from William’s face that his friend understood every deathly quiet syllable.
Friday: "The saints forgive me, but when Beckford sent me away to Enford, I missed ye more than I missed my own kin."
Saturday: When he had recovered from his final debacle with Kit, it had been with a foreign coldness inside him, a coldness that had warred ever since with the fiery blood of his birth.