it, of course, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the tone, and the tone was like honey, like love made into a song, a quiet, utterly fearless little chant that would have calmed a wolf with her back to the cliffside and three pups on her teats. It went on for maybe twenty seconds. When it was finished, Rinpoche took a step backward and bowed. The man with the snake tattoo stood frozen in place. And then across his jagged features bloomed the smile he must have had as a young boy, before anything had been taken away from him by what he saw and heard, before the world had shown him its
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