Horace thought so, so deeply. He ran his pencil through a word....then wrote the word back in. He was about to cross it through again....when......
'Ah! And so Norma's suggestion of where you might be found 'as proved to be correct!' Camille began.
Horace glanced at Camille.
'I'm just writing a.....'
'Poem!' Camille continued. 'Norma said you would be. But rather more accurately you 'were' writing a poem, for now you are putting away your little pencil and coming along with maself and Blanche.'
'Err?' Horace said.
'Norma said that there would be 'errs'. Also she indicated the possible use of wells, buts and can'ts. I 'ave been cleared to ignore them all.'
'But,' Horace mooed.
'I note you 'ave yet to put your pencil away.'
'Can't?'
'No,' Camille said, 'I am afraid not. It's one thing to write poems of love and sacrifice and death and other depressing things but it is quite another to actually experience them. Now, thanks to lovely Norma, you will 'ave the opportunity to fight pirate sheeps and die an 'eroic death. Although it will inevitably be ever so slightly less 'eroic than the death of ma brave Capitaine Bile, but with luck your own demise will come a close second.'
'Isn't...?'
'Norma made no mention of 'isn'ts' but I am thinking it is much the same as a can't and so will include it with the others upon my own initiative. This way please.'
And Camille reached across and took Horace's pencil from him and tucked it into his bag.
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