destroying angel

He is a destroying angel in moving through the still watches of the night."

And Saxon, glimpsing him sidewise, as he watched the horses and their way on the Sunday morning streets, checking them back suddenly and swerving to avoid two boys coasting across street on a toy wagon, saw in him deeps and intensities, all the magic connotations of temperament, the glimmer and hint of rages profound, bleaknesses as cold and far as the stars, savagery as keen as a wolf's and clean as a stallion's, wrath as implacable as a destroying angel's, and youth that was fire and life beyond time and place.

Do you know I always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?"

But it was strange to hear the milkman in the early morning, and the postman knocking his way along the street an hour later, and to be passed over by one destroying angel after another.

Her pale face became paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather without falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the people.

Confronting him, with a face that was a composite of destroying angel and Adonis, was a man holding a smoking revolver.

Hundred-ton guns were toys compared with the micro- organic projectiles hurled from the laboratories, the messengers of death, the destroying angels that stalked through the empire of a billion souls.

and Miss Murdstone right, and that all the angels in Heaven can be destroying angels. Again, if I move a finger or relax a muscle of my face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with her prayer-book, and makes my side ache.

In addition, Maeda and his team have installed microclimate sensors resembling the destroying angel mushroom.

The Destroying Angel, which is related to the Death Cap, is among the most toxic of the mushrooms and also easily mistaken for button mushrooms or young horse mushrooms.

verna; and the strangely named Destroying Angel: A.

having imagined your body one way I found it to be another way, it was yielding, but only as the Destroying Angel mushroom yields, softness allied with its poison, and your legs were not petals or tendrils as I'd believed, but brazen, the deviant tentacles beneath the underskirt of a secret queen If these poems emerge out of the jagged edge Clare describes, between exile and trauma and whatever is on the other side of that, they offer not simply a rendering of trauma--and not, really, a way of healing from it-but some third thing: claiming it, maybe, as a source of power.