“If I stop feeling a little bit of guilt . . . I’ll just be angry. And I don’t have anyone nearby to get angry at, except maybe God.” “Why not try it?” He stared at her, and she took another forkful of lunch, calm as a clock, as folks on the island said. “Miss Cavendish was right. You are a perfect heathen.” “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not a perfect anything.” Stop grinning. This was serious, after all. “I only mean that if you keep up a front with other folks, that’s your choice. But isn’t God supposed to already know how you really feel?”
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