““The angel being interrogated paced back and forth, anxiously running his fingers through his hair. Of course, being an angel, he didn't really do any of those things — being a fearsome creature, all wings and feathers and eyes. You might say, rather, that he fluttered about in a vaguely serpentine fashion, straightening out and smoothing one half of his wings with the other. But then, that would be difficult to envision, and probably meaningless, in terms of effectively interpreting his peculiar range of emotion; so we’re just going to go ahead and say that he paced, because these are angels, and poetic license is the only kind of license that holds any water with them.””
