It was no longer torture-torn and hateful, as I had seen it when she was cursing her dead rival by the leaping flames, no longer icily terrible as in the judgment-hall, no longer rich, and sombre, and splendid, like a Tyrian cloth, as in the dwellings of the dead.

During the week, the players were just as likely to be spotted out together in a local pub such as the Four in Hand. It was even known for them to frequent the Marksman off Carters Green, one of the town’s roughest boozers. http://www.theguardian.com/football/2014/jul/25/west-brom-three-degrees-book-extract

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Such experiences were unlike dreams, or any of the miasmic apparitions that arise in the natural psyche, below the mind.