She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “I’m not gentle. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. And she’s pluck to the backbone.
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