Matt

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‘There is a cold doubt, a horrid shadow, in some corner of my soul. Supposing—supposing—how if there were no god of the Mountain and even no holy Shadowbrute, and those who are tied to the Tree only die, day by day, from thirst and hunger and wind and sun, or are eaten piecemeal by the crows and catamountains? And it is this—oh, Maia, Maia. . .
Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold
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