George Frederick Watts The Recording Angel

George Frederick Watts The Recording AngelGeorge Frederick Watts She shall be called womanGeorge Frederick Watts CreationUnknown Artist Venice Grand CanalUnknown Artist Grand Canal scene
where he ought to be was not where he was.
And finally, even further down the road, was an eight-horse wagon taking a load of lumber to Holy Wood. Its driver wasn’t thinking about anything very much, although he was slightly puzzled by an incident that occurred of the Century of the Fruitbat, that Discworld affairs were being watched keenly and impatiently by intelligences greater than Man’s, or at least much nastier; that their affairs were being scrutinized and studied as a man with a three-day appetite might study the All-You-Can-Gobble-For A Dollar menu outside Harga’s House of Ribs . . . just as he was leaving Ankh-Morpork in the darkness before dawn. A voice from the gloom by the road had shouted ‘Stop in the name of the city guard!’ and he had stopped, and when nothing further had transpired he had looked around, and there was no-one there. The wagon rumbled past, revealing to the eye of the imaginative beholder the small figure of Gaspode the Wonder Dog, trying to make himself comfortable amongst the balks of timber at the rear. He was going to Holy Wood too. And he also didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. None would have believed, in the final years