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He is being what everybody agrees is good. And yet every time he wakes and buttons his tunic, he feels he is betraying something.
How do they know what parts to play, those little bees?
Out in the world waits a multitude of sanctuaries—gardens full of bright green wind; kingdoms of hedges; deep pools of forest shade through which butterflies float thinking only of nectar.
She takes no notice of him; she seems to know nothing but the morning. This, he thinks, is the pure they were always lecturing about at Schulpforta.
“Clair de Lune.” Claire: a girl so clear you can see right through her.
