Grace Whitlock

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“Once there was a girl afraid of growing up,” she says, her pencil still scratching at the page. “When she was a child, she was a giant, free and large and boundless. But growing up, she knew, meant becoming small, small enough to fit in a man’s open hand. No longer a person at all, but a trophy, a trinket.”
Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil
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