"The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows."

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While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

— Margaret Atwood