“Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams . . .” I smile to myself. Poor little Mara is not impervious to nightmares, whatever she may pretend during the daylight hours. I pick up the next novel on the stack, Prometheus Illbound, and let it fall open to a dog-eared page. Here she’s marked: I do not love men: I love what devours them.”
―
Sophie Lark,
There Are No Saints
