Explore "The Great Skene Mystery" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
His that is just written passes as an _entr'acte_, the fooling of a clown before the curtain, the merry jigging of the fiddles. It ends; and the lights are down once more, the dark curtains heave and lift, waste glooms and sorrows repossess the stage -- and only now, always in their deep midmost, travels a little bloody star, the soul of a murdered child.
Winter has gripped the land in earnest, and, screaming upon the heavy dawns, come winds and ashy flights of snow. They are like tempests of defiance, hissing down and heaping at my feet to dispute my way. But I shout them back their blasphemies, and spurn them and drive on. I have a deadly purpose at my heart, and I am not to be deterred by bluster. The right shall be vindicated and the guilty soul stripped naked, whatever befall of frost or storm. On and on, to the relentless end!