She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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