At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. A deadlock. He must know she’ll be at a convent. The Closing Scene.
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