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The leaves crunched agreeably under their feet as they walked on, and the woods were aromatic with fall.
it was the Psalter, the voice of the adult calling down the black well of years into the miserable pit of terrorized childhood; it was what you said when things went wrong; it was the nightlight that could not banish the monster from the closet but perhaps only keep it at bay for a little while; it was the voice without power that must speak nevertheless.
Ideals were cheap things to hold as long as there were no solid arguments for their overthrow.
