He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.
Ach, Ginny, Ginny. You slay me with your first lines.
(For your edification, that was from Orlando, by Virginia Woolf. I’m meant to be putting books AWAY, not reading them, but you know how that goes. Frankly, it’s why there are books beached on the reefs of every small table, stair and window sill of my house; the tide never stops.
Ah, books. Make. Me. So. Happy. Never mind the tide, may I never stop wading in the sea.
Pax to you.
The coast near St. Andrews, Scotland, taken one fine evening from a train as we crossed a looong bridge. Lovely light, no?