During the years I lived in Paris, I remember eating this simple paellalike chicken dish often at the home of some friends who had a Portuguese cook...

On a stile in Haylane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life—my genius of good or evil—waited there in humble guise.

Somewhere in the midst of searing, blinding pain a tiny mode of coherence bobbed, buffeted on shrieking data currents. O’Neill felt cosmic fingers trying to rip her self apart, to abolish her mind orders and meld her with the formless hyperplasma of the universe’s beginning.

I found that the Chapelon steamed almost too freely, because on a strange locomotive and road one usually tends to overfire a little through a natural lack of confidence.