Tell her that sicknesse, with her ashie hand, Hath swept away the beauty from my cheekes,

It’s all owing to your precious caution that they got hold of it. If you had let me burn it, and taken my word that it was gone, it would have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, instead of being whole and sound, inside of my great-coat.

LORNA WYNDE: You cried so hard, you followed through in Oddbins.

All the unknown looked out from boundlessness: It lodged upon an edge of hourless Time, Gazing out of some everlasting Now […]