Her face loomed huge above, young as a bride’s, her eyes full of laughter and light—but they had no pupil and no iris, being all white, smooth as a statue’s. “Fate,” she said, putting her head to one shoulder as her arms wove on, “is a blind weaver, they say. Did you know that? Have you lived long enough in the world to hear how she cuts and spins and stitches, how she never ceases, even for a moment?” “No, Lady.” “It is a very silly story. For one thing, I have never cut a thread in my life…”
