It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. I want to love him. Always remember that. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. ” “Kitty is wonderful,” said another. ’ ‘Probably not.
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