[C]locks indeed must have thier sacrifice: what is death but an offering to time and eternity? - Truman Capote

But, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is (and I realized it while we were standing there) I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.

A sensible question, as Mrs. Clare, an admirer of logic, though a curious interpreter of it, was driven to admit.

If some wizard would like to give me a present, let him give me a bottle filled with the voices of that kitchen, the ha ha ha and the fire whispering, a bottle brimming with its buttery sugary smells . . .