Here's what this fellow does—he submits tame ads for approval, and once approved, redirects the url to the spammy page.
He submits, but in a shatteringly grotesque fashion.
He submits to psychological testing and acquires a coach, Ed Cooke, himself a memory-games competitor.
He submits Stello to a sort of psychoanalytic examination, as confided to Doctor Noir.
He submits to the force that he himself brought to the world.
He submits that the soul must be an incorporeal, intellectual entity, subsistent in itself, immortal, and yet designed to be one with the body.
He submits to the slow poison of routine, the "brutish stammerings" of the crowded morning bus: His seemingly indifferent and apathetic eyes take in more than before.
He submits that, without whistleblowers such as Mr Shayler, British citizens would know too little about the doings of their secret services.
He submits to the beatings out of fear, and out of a desire to suffer in privacy; he wonders if his actions constitute complicity.
He submits to drug tests three times a week, and except for one drunken episode in Phoenix before spring training in 2009, he appears to have maintained his sobriety.
