“Who shot him? I asked.The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.”

“The last time somebody pointed out that cowboys ride horses, not tricycles, I shot him. Of course, I waited until another gunslinger gunned him down, but nevertheless, I still shot him.”

“With the ferrule of his walking-stick Denis began to scratch the boar's long bristly back. The animal moved a little so as to bring himself within easier range of the instrument that evoked in him such delicious sensations; then he stood stock still, softly grunting his contentment. The mud of years flaked off his sides in a grey powdery scurf. "What a pleasure it is," said Denis, "to do somebody a kindness. I believe I enjoy scratching this pig quite as much as he enjoys being scratched. If only one could always be kind with so little expense or trouble...”

“Shame isn't a quiet grey cloud, shame is a drowning man who claws his way on top of you, scratching and tearing your skin, pushing you under the surface.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was shot?” he finally asked with a mischievous glint in his black eyes. Cameron stared at him. “Shot? Like, shot? By a gun?” Julian tilted his head and nodded. “It’s hard to be shot with a knife.”

“Now we sit and wait,” the woman said, and she settled into a chair, the gun on her lap.“What are we waiting for?” Jane asked.The woman stared at her. Said, calmly: “The end.”