‘Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light…’
‘Sticks, little sticks, were flying about—thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house.’
‘His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding-sheet.’
Binding design
© Joanne Young Illustration 2014
