As the witching hours draws near, I close the leather cover on this most marvellous tome, and pause momentarily. The light from my oil lamp quivers and then fails as if shaken by a transient breeze, and at the window, the sound of wings.... The passing of Polly, the Viscose of the Moors darkens my windows, momentarily blotting out the light of the moon. Visions of the FHBCAG with the vapors flit through my mind in the translucent darkness, followed by the half-heard strains of a haunting reel, accompanied by the *thump-thump* of a splinted ankle.

In truth such was this visitation of printed imagery; nay, but so real as to evoke the sensory hallucination of lines of kilted gentry and be-sashed ladies. A vision indeed to be savoured, there alone in the half-light.

At last, thoughtfully I bent down and struck a match, lighting my oil lamp once again, to prepare myself and my surroundings for slumber.