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’
Don
’
t
mess
about
,
that
candle
won
’
t
last
much
longer
.
’
’
Mort
!
’
’
What
?
’
’
Mort
,
there
’
s
a
whole
shelf
!
’
Now
it
really
was
dawn
,
that
cusp
of
the
day
that
belonged
to
no
-
one
except
the
seagulls
in
Morpork
docks
,
the
tide
that
rolled
in
up
the
river
,
and
a
warm
turnwise
wind
that
added
a
smell
of
spring
to
the
complex
odour
of
the
city
.
Death
sat
on
a
bollard
,
looking
out
to
sea
.
He
had
decided
to
stop
being
drunk
.
It
made
his
head
ache
.
He
’
d
tried
fishing
,
dancing
,
gambling
and
drink
,
allegedly
four
of
life
’
s
greatest
pleasures
,
and
wasn
’
t
sure
that
he
saw
the
point
.
Food
he
was
happy
with
–
Death
liked
a
good
meal
as
much
as
anyone
else
.
He
couldn
’
t
think
of
any
other
pleasures
of
the
flesh
or
,
rather
,
he
could
,
but
they
were
,
well
,
fleshy
,
and
he
couldn
’
t
see
how
it
would
be
possible
to
go
about
them
without
some
major
bodily
restructuring
,
which
he
wasn
’
t
going
to
contemplate
.
Besides
,
humans
seemed
to
leave
off
doing
them
as
they
grew
older
,
so
presumably
they
couldn
’
t
be
that
attractive
.
Death
began
to
feel
that
he
wouldn
’
t
understand
people
as
long
as
he
lived
.
The
sun
made
the
cobbles
steam
and
Death
felt
the
faintest
tingling
of
that
little
springtime
urge
that
can
send
a
thousand
tons
of
sap
pumping
through
fifty
feet
of
timber
in
a
forest
.
