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I liked the fact that the Hall of History was pretty, with that long black wall running the height and length of the room, and the coloured bars that were lit up along its length, like irregularly spaced fence posts. It was easy to be impressed by the glowing colours and the writing in them. I was fixated on what was known. It was years later before I stopped to think about the black intervals between the bars, and what they meant.
Could kindness—by only ever taking little steps—twist itself into the worst kind of cruelty?