The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn’d for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover’d with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
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Show samples from other sources
It’s been so long since I’ve hugged her, a twinge of guilt rises up inside me.
Colleen Hoover -- Slammed
She has twelve, and I feel a momentary twinge of jealousy.