Dire critics and nested brackets

Meanwhile, back three spaces and miss a turn — bishop to king's third, gentleman's fourth — do not collect two hundred pounds. How often? Never! Really?

    "No..." Arthur doubted. "All seven? With olives? Seriously? Oval? Good Lord!" And that was just before tea.

    Afterwards, the city was empty. Windy windy. Those ubiquitous leaves and big papery detritus. Diacritics scurried villainously from drains. Dire critics collapsed in the streets. Those that were left trumpeted. Jean was alone, the speaker dumb, the writer dead, chairs chairs. Isn't it time for our lesson?

(because they lessened...)

And it was true, every last fact of it (Liverpool, no thank you, I don't disagree with mud in my pudding — pud! (in my mudding, through a long-winded (and largely tautologous set of rhyming couplets (of the Alexandrine style, as popularised so jibely by that (four-legget bandicoot of a pobble (nây, này, and quice náy (I speak of Mr(s) A.M. (F (S ((poobl(glun(k))))))))))))atishoo). Merci.