Repressively, Lymond Himself Answered. “i Dislike Being

I Wish To God,” Said Gideon With Mild Exasperation, “that You’d Talk—just Once—in Prose Like Other People.

The Coast's A Jungle Of Moors, Turks, Jews, Renegades From All Over Europe, Sitting In Palaces Built From The Sale Of Christian Slaves. There Are Twenty Thousand Men, Women And Children In The Bagnios Of Algiers Alone. I Am Not Going To Make It Twenty Thousand And One Because Your Mother Didn't Allow You To Keep Rabbits, Or Whatever Is At The Root Of Your Unshakable Fixation." "i Had Weasels Instead," Said Philippa Shortly. "good God," Said Lymond, Looking At Her. "that Explains A Lot.

Facts Are The Soil From Which The Story Grows. Imagination Is A Last Resort.

And The English Army, Wheeling, Started South At A Gallop Over The Hill Pass Into Ettrick, Followed By Twenty Men And Eight Hundred Sheep In Steel Helmets.

But I Despised Men Who Accepted Their Fate. I Shaped Mine Twenty Times And Had It Broken Twenty Times In My Hands.