She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle.
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