the fragrance that came to each was like a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land of which the fair world in Spring is itself but a fleeting memory.

“Thag you mery buch.”

“He raised his staff. There was a roll of thunder. The sunlight was blotted out …”

“To walk in Time, perhaps, as men walk on long roads... to see the lie of old an…”

“I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”