“Dwelves are half-elf, half-dwarf.” “Certainly not! We are not half-elves or half-anything. We are not dwarves. We are not elves. We are a unique race.” “Do their peoples descend from yours?” “Maybe. Giants did descend from fairies.”

The note strikes the young artist curiously, but just then the squeaky elevator arrives with a sorrowsome ding and she is distracted by its squawking doors and a grumbling old lady with a shopping bag.

It is the privilege of every pilot to think of himself, privately at least, as a hot rock of the first magnitude. Whether he is or not is an evaluation that he is not altogether qualified to make for himself.

Don't be hurrisome or you'll pay for it with a broken head.