Much underrated is the function of the word "indeed." Scholarly to some, obnoxious to others, "indeed" is best utilized in circumstances of doubt and overwhelmedness. For instance, one might find oneself playing darts in Gramercy with a tall, drunk anglo-saxon named Chris. Chris might, for argument's sake, trumpet his sexual exploits with remarks like: "So I had this one chick over at my place, and she was like, 'Your sheets smell like another woman's sex.' Then she stormed out...that's the second time that happened!!"
For another example, we travel to the outskirts of Queens College's Powdermaker Hall, a sunny expanse of bench and concrete frequented by lunching students. It is here that one might encounter a professor, awkwardly walking with shoulders aloft and chest inflated, as if to say, "Look--I'm a professor." This professor may walk over to you, lock his/her gaze upon your food-trodden face, and demand, with much sass, "Hey, how are you?" It is then that, food in tow, one might meet his/her professorial gaze, and pronounce, "Good. How are you?" And this professor, emboldened by your engaging, haughty retort, might counter, "I'm just great, thanks."
"Indeed" is the type of word that can avert wars, steal maidens from their castles' virginal grips, or even tame a wild evangelist. There is no earthly bound for "indeed," just as there is no phraseology sufficient to convey my appreciation for it.