The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. White. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad.
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