There once was a tailor who had a son no higher than a thumb, so he was called Tom Thumb. And then the murders began.
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversations?’ And then the murders began.
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. And then the murders began.
Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. And then the murders began.