Talk:Snatch a stone/@comment-5271581-20140625040037

For the sake of the memoir, I hope it's alright to post this one in full, as someone had done for the other outcome:

A handful! The gentleman turns, but too late! You seize the bluest stone. He roars in dismay and plunges headlong to grasp you, but you evade him and dart across the street, dodging hackney-carriages and donkeys-carts. The stranger pelts after you, howling imprecations and calling down the wrath of foreign gods with outlandish names, but you outpace him handily. The stone struggles in your fist and is constrained. You open your fingers and see your face reflected in its surface: for an unaccountable instant, a dead star swims into the lens of your thoughts.

RIP Jack Vance, 1916-2013, without whom there would be fewer colours in Fallen London.