"The Ripley," he notes in surprise, taking the black book with careful hands, everything else Q has said falling into profound unimportance. He turns the pages very gently, letting the scents of ancient paper and leather free into the air, and reads, rolling the words off his tongue with the satisfaction of the true amateur,
"Pale, and black, with false citrine, unperfect white and red, Peacocks' feathers in color gay, the rainbow which shall overgo The spotted panther with the lion green, the crow's bill blue as lead... These shall appear before the perfect White.
"And what," he inquires, wrenching his eyes up from the treasure to meet Q's, "is meant by that, in your opinion?"