The Infant Is Ten And He Stays.

Do I Love You? My God, If Your Love Were A Grain Of Sand, Mine Would Be A Universe Of Beaches! If Your Love Were-" "i Don't Understand That First One Yet," Buttercup Interrupted. She Was Starting To Get Very Excited Now. "let Me Get This Straight. Are You Saying My Love Is A Grain Of Sand And Yours Is This Other Thing? Images Confuse Me So - Is This Universal Business Of Yours Bigger Than My Sand? Help Me, Westley. I Have The Feeling We're On The Verge Of Something Just Terribly Important.

The Infant Is Ten And He Stays.

No. Not Yet. A Craftsman Only. But I Dream To Be An Artist. I Pray That Someday, If I Work With Enough Care, If I Am Very Very Lucky, I Will Make A Weapon That Is A Work Of Art. Call Me An Artist Then, And I Will Answer.

But Just As He Knew The Sun Was Obliged To Rise Each Morning In The East, No Matter How Much A Western Arisal Might Have Pleased It, So He Knew That Buttercup Was Obliged To Spend Her Love On Him. Gold Was Inviting, And So Was Royalty, But They Could Not Match The Fever In His Heart, And Sooner Or Later She Would Have To Catch It. She Had Less Choice Than The Sun.

The Boys. The Village Boys. The Beef-witted Featherbrained Rattleskulled Clodpated Dimdomed Noodle-noggined Sapheaded Lunk-knobbed Boys. How Could Anybody Accuse Her Of Stealing Them? Why Would Anybody Want Them Anyway?