Abraham Merritt wrote for the pulps and never in his lifetime achieved critical success. Yet he had a devoted following in the science fiction ghetto who admired the clarity of his style and his power to evoke moods.
Funny how many times I've sat down to a plateful of finny haddock for my tea and then leaned back pogged and with nothing more on my mind than which picture I fancy seeing best.
Not so long ago a Scotsman is reported to have exhumed the body of his daughter and burnt her heart, as he thought she was devitalising her remaining brother and sister and making them ill.
We returned to the crossing, passing slowly through the high rusty stands of dock weeds and the fleshy beds of dense paspalum.
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