There would be no running. Before she could even try, the Weaver blocked the way. The Irishman leaned down and he laid her in the dead center of her own being. He held her buoyant so that she floated in the space that was her own and she received because the space was so vast and empty and therefore allowed it—the total essence of those who surrounded her like an army, and their cries were hell itself. The woman had just evidenced. Do y’ see now, what y’ are and do y’ see y’r purpose? She saw. Existence in y’r case, and he was laughing but it was not unkind, has nothin’ t’ do w’ y’r specific
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