He Had Quite Liked The Dwarfs. He

The Detective Was Different. Not That He Wasn't A Good Man; Willie Had Heard Enough About Him To Understand That He Was The Kind Who Didn't Like To Turn Away From Another's Pain, The Kind Who Couldn't Put A Pillow Over His Ears To Drown Out The Cries Of Strangers. Those Scars He Had Were Badges Of Courage, And Willie Knew That There Were Others Hidden Beneath His Clothes, And Still More Deep Inside, Right Beneath The Skin And Down To The Soul. No, It Was Just That Whatever Goodness Was There Coexisted With Rage And Grief And Loss.

“you Don't Have Much Faith In People, Do You?” Said David. “i Don't Have Much Faith In Anything,” Roland Replied. “not Even In Myself.”

For In Every Adult There Dwells The Child That Was, And In Every Child There Lies The Adult That Will Be.

You Had Evil Inside You, And You Indulged It. Men Will Always Indulge It.

He Would Talk To Them Of Stories And Books, And Explain To Them How Stories Wanted To Be Told And Books Wanted To Be Read, And How Everything That They Ever Needed To Know About Life And The Land Of Which He Wrote, Or About Any Land Or Realm That They Could Imagine, Was Contained In Books. And Some Of The Children Understood, And Some Did Not.