Thousand: Two Hundred Ninety-Nine

returned to the gazebo and his guest who had already poured the tea and was dunking a madeleine. “This reminds me of something,” said the fisher gnome, gazing into the distance where the Andes sawed away at the sky. The garden gnome squinted at his teacup. “There’s,” he began then gave a yelp which made the fisher gnome tremble. “There’s the milk!” the garden gnome shouted, pointing a finger around which a loose thread of dusty web swirled. The fisher gnome patted his forehead with a blue linen napkin, not bothering to look where he had placed the milk, even