Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier?

Everyone is small at night.

She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.

You know a great many things in dreams, often despite the evidence of your eyes. You just know them.

Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.

My children were all made from paper and printer's ink.

My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.