The three of them were walking, with extreme care, along the bank of an underground river. The bank was slippery, a narrow path along dark rock and sharp masonry. Richard watched with respect as the gray water rushed and tumbled, within arm’s reach. This was not the kind of river you fell into and got out of again; it was the other kind.

Neil Gaiman (b. 1960) British author, screenwriter, fabulist
Neverwhere, ch. 11 (1996)
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Added on 31-Jul-14 | Last updated 26-Oct-23
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