Still, he was ready to run — would run in a second or two, when his mental switchboard had dealt with the shock those two shiny yellow eyes had given him. He felt the rough surface of the macadam under his fingers, and the thin sheet of cold water flowing around them. He saw himself getting up and backing away, and that was when a voice — a perfectly reasonable and rather pleasant voice — spoke to him from inside the stormdrain. There was a clown in the stormdrain.
Much water runs by the mill that the miller knows not of.
Votre âme est un parfum subtil dans une armoire,
Votre âme est un baiser que je n'aurai jamais,
Votre âme est un lac bleu que nul autan ne moire;
What would I give
If I could live
Outta these waters?
What would I pay
To spend a day
Warm on the sand?