He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.

Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them, and we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story. On the other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it will all come right in the end.

Nobody really wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.

What is genius? It is the power to be a boy again at will.

After a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy.

That is ever the way. Tis all jealousy to the bride and good wishes to the corpse.

In dinner talk it is perhaps allowable to fling any faggot rather than let the fire go out.