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“Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes.”
Finally he spoke the three simple words that no amount of bad art or bad faith can ever quite cheapen. She repeated them, with exactly the same slight emphasis on the second word, as though she had been the one to say them first.
How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.
It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely the point. The attempt was all.
