Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. "I likes to hear vot you says. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said. Better even than these. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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