"No, you are not an 'us'. You are an 'I'"
I, me, said the hiver. I. Who am I?
"Do you want a name? That helps."
Yes. A name . . .
"I've always liked Arthur as a name."
Arthur, said the hiver. I like Arthur too. And if I am, I can stop. What happens next?
His chief printer entered, clutching a sheaf of proofs. 'We're going to have to get Mr Cripslock to engrave page 11 again,' he said mournfully.[...]
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