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Philemon

Philemon is in his Riddling Hall; and therefore he is riddling.

“Consider this: may any touch Our Imperial Majesty without permission?” he asks.

The assembled philosophers rumble, no.

“Yet does a man’s shadow not cling to his feet?”

“Not when he skips,” chirps a little girl, as the crowd gapes around her.

“You again!” sniffs Philemon. “Well, consider this: in my Riddling Hall I am lit with a thousand lanterns, my shadow trapped under my feet! Can I not be said to have conquered darkness?”

“Well, if you trap your shadow in a box,” asks Corbin, “what does that make you?”

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