Argue With Anything Else, But

Men Pass In Front Of Our Eyes Like Butterflies, Creatures Of A Brief Season. We Love Them; They Are Brave, Proud, Beautiful, And Clever.

A Murderer Was A Worthy Companion.

So Lyra And Her Daemon Turned Away From The World They Were Born In, And Looked Toward The Sun, And Walked Into The Sky.

The Sight Filled The Northern Sky; The Immensity Of It Was Scarcely Conceivable. As If From Heaven Itself, Great Curtains Of Delicate Light Hung And Trembled. Pale Green And Rose-pink, And As Transparent As The Most Fragile Fabric, And At The Bottom Edge A Profound Fiery Crimson Like The Fires Of Hell, They Swung And Shimmered Loosely With More Grace Than The Most Skillful Dancer.

Half A Dozen Brats Turned With Expressions Of Derision, And Lyra Threw Her Cigarette Down, Recognizing The Cue For A Fight. Everyone's Daemon Instantly Became Warlike: Each Child Was Accompanied By Fangs, Or Claws, Or Bristling Fur, And Pantalaimon, Contemptuous Of The Limited Imaginations Of These Gyptian Daemons, Became A Dragon The Size Of A Deer Hound.