Verily, the mills of the gods grind slowly, but what a grist they grind!
Behold, then, hungry novel-monger, what grist is here for the mill!
So that choir troubles are to us only a part of the grist that keeps the mill going.
If I were a novelist now all this would be grist for my mill.
Some time after, Bishop asked me if my father would grind her grist for her?