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Consistency

"I like them," she said, after pondering the question for a moment, "because they are consistent."

"Of what do they consist?" he harrumphed, tugging on his white moustache with his left thumb and index finger, his lips curled into an inquisitive frown.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, her brow furrowing, for she had not expected such a question. "They consist-- they consist of pebbles and honey," she said.

"Pebbles and honey," he repeated, slowly.

"And moss," she stated after a moment's further reflection, nodding with authority.

"Moss," he said, his frown deepening. "Of course." He heaved a deep sigh and let his hand fall.