up in the back-and-forth of wind through leaves. Now there was the creak of
an oak limb, now a silence through which a distant stream could be heard to
murmur. Now a rush of wind again—and, and—the world had sealed over,
had healed itself of the girl’s presence, as if she had never lived. Had even
forgotten her absence. Even he, used to hearing a beetle pause and inspect
itself under a fallen log, was dizzy with the mystery of how fully she had been
taken away. What was her name, even?
- Gregory Maguire, Mirror Mirror
By Benjamin Lacombe. |
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