She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. It has something to do with the fact that my Mom had them when she was only seventeen. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. ” She controlled a sob.
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