The pale clouded yellows had pelted over the moor; they had zigzagged across the purple clover.

The fritillaries flaunted along the hedgerows.

The blues settled on little bones lying on the turf with the sun beating on them, and the painted ladies and the peacocks feasted upon bloody entrails dropped by a hawk.

Miles away from home, in a hollow among teasles beneath a ruin, he had found the commas.
He had seen a white admiral circling higher and higher round an oak tree, but he had never caught it.

An old cottage woman living alone, high up, had told him of a purple butterfly which came every summer to her garden.