So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.
In fact, Mr.Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.
"It may well be," he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, "it may well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet.

You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms.

I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden." The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity.

The third party of the group, Gregory's sister Rosamond, who had her brother's braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.
Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.
"An artist is identical with an anarchist," he cried.

"You might transpose the words anywhere.