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“How come all the spiders are men?” “Because then it feels more satisfying to squish them,”
There was an intimacy to all violence, she supposed. The better you knew someone, the more terribly you could hurt them.
When he had first placed his hand over her knee, she had thought he was being warm, fatherly. She hadn’t known to be afraid. Even now, she didn’t know if she was allowed to be.
And if he could write something like Angharad, why is his other work so . . . so middling?”
lol. She literally said his work is mid.
Why was it always girls whose forms could not be trusted? Everything could be taken away from them in an instant.
She had already heard the version of the story in which she was a tramp, a slut, a whore. She had heard it so many times, it was like a water stain on velvet; it would never quite come out. She wondered if there was another version of the story. She didn’t even know her own.
“And, well, I suppose that’s partly why I don’t have much faith in the notion of permanence. Anything can be taken from you, at any moment. Even the past isn’t guaranteed. You can lose that, too, slowly, like water eating away at stone.”
“I was eighteen,” said Angharad again. “That meant I was a woman, in some people’s eyes. Well—I was a woman when it was convenient to blame me, and a girl when they wanted to use me.
