“What a world this is, he thought. Children put us to shame with their pluck, and are shot in the back for it.”

“One of the two of us, thought Mosca, is in a lot of trouble right now. I wonder which of us it is? She isn’t turning pale or plucking at her handkerchief. Oh draggles, I think it’s me.”

“The ladies’ fans opened with cracks like pistol shots, and were held up to block the stranger from view.”

“Wishes are thorns, he told himself sharply. They do us no good, just stick into our skin and hurt us.”

“I am anything I wish to be. The world cannot choose for me. No, it is for me to choose what the world shall be.”

“She lay there with her eyes closed, as if sleep were a shy creature that might venture out if she played dead. But every time it seemed to be drawing closer, some loud thought would crash and blunder through the undergrowth, putting it to flight.”

“She’s got us, she’s got us all. Caverna. She doesn’t want to let us go. Do you know what she’s like? A huge trap-lantern with us inside her, digesting us really, really slowly, and not wanting to let any of us go. Maybe that’s the worst kind of prison – not knowing you’re in a prison. Because then you don’t fight to get out.”