“There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder,” he said, and bit into the custard tart. “Where is that quote from?” I asked. “You need to spend more time in the library,” he said, then continued to chew quietly, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “Are you trying to say that you can be angry at something but not have it dictate your actions?” I prodded. He gave me a meaningful look. “It’s just something I think we should both try to remember.” Then he dusted off his fingers, hopped down, and sauntered toward the back door to the kitchen. “It’s George Eliot,” he
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