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He was finished with me too, for I had committed the unpardonable sin of being dull.
They were sick with longing for their hands, those appendages men use to mitigate the world.
It was a trick of his, to set a sentence out like a plate on a table and see what you would put on it.
“Nothing she says has a single meaning, nor a single intention, yet she is steady. She knows herself.”
But he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.
