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At sixteen, the elusive stamp of hurt was already marked clearly in her eyes.
Jesus watches from the wall, But his face is cold as stone, And if he loves me As she tells me Why do I feel so all alone?
She did not know if her gift had come from the lord of light or of darkness, and now, finally finding that she did not care which, she was overcome with an almost indescribable relief, as if a huge weight, long carried, had slipped from her shoulders.
The over-all impression is one of a town that is waiting to die. It is not enough, these days, to say that Chamberlain will never be the same. It may be closer to the truth to say that Chamberlain will simply never again be.
