"The sky over the western horizon was a riot of colour. Small clouds,
edged with burnished gold, drifted into the bright beyond. The scene in
all its splendour, put me in mind of an explosive display of coloured
fountains, or the outpouring of some demented painter, who had flooded the
canvas with golden oranges, swimming in their own blood-red juice. It was
as if a rainbow was glowing inside an open furnace. But most of all, it
was like the sun setting in the mountains, and beautiful to behold..." A wonderfully lyrical passage from one of the