Talk:Ask why he is thus adorned/@comment-141.114.152.30-20130531155244

There's more text for the result:

"Drink with me at the Blind Helmsman," he urges you, "and I will explain." You repair to the Blind Helmsman, where he prevails on you to purchase a tankard of complex black beer.

Thus refreshed and prepared, he laments: "A great man has died! An architect of exotic villainies which would intimidate even the Bazaar. These" - he points at the stones - "celebrate him. I will not disgrace the memory of his work by resort to funeral drab. Today, I light the streets of London! Publican! My throat is dry. Attend me!"

You glean little further of sense or use. There is considerable blather of far seas and cities: invented, you suspect, but as finely detailed as a Roman mosaic. At least you convince him to pay for his own beer. Eventually he collapses into melancholy unconsciousness, and you leave him to his stones.

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