Funny, one somehow imagines her snuffing quietly out now, the way the moon would if the sun vanished.
But I have noticed this about ambitious men, or men in power, that they fear even the slightest and least likely threat to it.
It was over, the awkward moment, the dreaded moment, sliding past in a ripple of commonplaces, the easy mechanical politenesses that are so much more than empty convention; they are the greaves and cuirasses that arm the naked nerve.
If anyone was to perform the classic folly of taking a midnight stroll among the murderous gentlemen with whom the hotel was probably packed, it was not going to be me.
Used every man according to his capacity.
There are few men more superstitious than soldiers. They are, after all, the men who live closest to death.
Mother and daughter got on very well indeed, with a deep affection founded on almost complete misunderstanding.
The sour smell was not the smell of fungus. It was unlit incense, and cold ashes, and unsaid prayers. I
I was back on the scented hillside with the moon coming out above the ruins of the temple where nothing remains now of the Goddess but her night-owls brooding. So
a dream half-waking, broken and uneasy, of the small gods of small places; gods of hills and woods and streams and crossways; the gods who still haunt their broken shrines, waiting in the dusk beyond the lights of the busy Christian churches, and the dogged rituals of the greater gods of Rome.