I Have The Heart Of A Child.

I Always Carry A Pistol When I Go [to The New York Public Library]. Never Did Trust Those Stone Lions.

Despite My Ghoulish Reputation, I Really Have The Heart Of A Small Boy. I Keep It In A Jar On My Desk.

Funny How We Take It For Granted That We Know All There Is To Know About Another Person, Just Because We See Them Frequently Or Because Of Some Strong Emotional Tie.

Then She Did See It There - Just A Face, Peering Through The Curtains, Hanging In Midair Like A Mask. A Head-scarf Concealed The Hair And The Glassy Eyes Stared Inhumanly, But It Wasn’t A Mask, It Couldn’t Be. The Skin Had Been Powdered Dead-white And Two Hectic Spots Of Rouge Centered On The Cheekbones. It Wasn’t A Mask. It Was The Face Of A Crazy Old Woman. Mary Started To Scream, And Then The Curtains Parted Further And A Hand Appeared, Holding A Butcher’s Knife. It Was The Knife That, A Moment Later, Cut Off Her Scream. And Her Head.

Magic--that's Just A Label, You Know. Completely Meaningless. It Wasn't So Very Long Ago That People Were Saying That Electricity Was Magic.