And she struck me as sinister.
"You won't tell me who you are ?" I said.
"I have done so," she answered.
"If you expect me to believe that you inhabit a mathematical monstrosity, you are mistaken.

You are, really." She turned round and pointed at the city.
"Look!" she said.
We had climbed the western hill.

Below our feet, beneath a sky that the wind had swept clean of clouds, was the valley; a broad bowl, shallow, filled with the purple of smoke-wreaths.

And above the mass of red roofs there soared the golden stonework of the cathedral tower.

It was a vision, the last word of a great art.