"I have read no little of the stars; but I know not this constellation."
"Ah, it stands not in the heavens, but the heart. Did I not say the sky is written in our souls? In our cosmography?” He traced the inlay of the cabinet, the flowers and the fruit of wood. “I have heard a nightingale in Lune, but long ago. In Gallwood, in the fellows’ grove.” He looked far inward, reminiscent. “Quis quis quis, it sings; and, Cuius? Cuius? cries the owl."
Then shaking off his melancholy, smiling, he unlocked the inmost door.
"But here..."