In the years after Wilmington, when I had realized I needed to work, do research, and write, we were working together at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, side by side under the little green lights in the old library that so many of us loved.

They will not passe thorough the holes of the sieve, ruddle or trie, if they be narrow.

Bradly hung the fowl in a sugar-bag for to-morrow's dinner and set about grilling chops, with tomatoes stuffed with cheese and breadcrumbs in the pan.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep, That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow Like bubbles in a late-disturb'd stream,[…]