On a stile in Haylane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life—my genius of good or evil—waited there in humble guise.

When we got there, Chillagoe turned out to be a single chimneystack sticking up out of acres of ruins under waist-high lawyer vines.

I agreed to review this anthology entirely because “the devil’s doorbell” is the best euphemism for “clitoris” I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

Let them that wallys the sheep watch 'em.