SUNDAY, midday. A landowner, called Kamyshev, is sitting in his dining-room, deliberately eating his lunch at a luxuriously furnished table. Monsieur Champoun, a clean, neat, smoothly-shaven, old Frenchman, is sharing the meal with him. This Champoun had once been a tutor in Kamyshev's household, had taught his children good manners, the correct pronunciation of French, and dancing: afterwards when Kamyshev's children had grown up and become lieutenants, Champoun had become something like a bonne of the male sex. (less)

THIS IS HOW it all came about. Six or seven of us were sitting one day after tea. Some were gazing across the street into the windows of a milliner's shop where the light still shone brightly upon scarlet feathers and golden slippers. Others were idly occupied in building little towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. (less)

You got a moment?' Ron Wilson motioned to his office without meeting Malcolm's eyes. He was uncharacteristically preoccupied, fidgeting with a set of keys as he made his way over to that great, tawdry rosewood desk. (less)

The gaunt man checked his leader's tracking, and the little man on the white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. "Hullo!" said the gaunt man. "Shout!" said the little man, and shouted. If I said it – !" thought the little man. "It isn't thistle-down," said the little man. "Spiders!" cried the voice of the gaunt man. "Ride for it!" the little man was shouting. The little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse. "My horse bolted." "Cowards both," said the little man. "My lord!" said the little man. (less)

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect – the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever – (less)