That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Sometimes I take innocent lives. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. These sham ideals and advanced notions. Rowland," she added, in an altered tone, "I am certain I shall not live many days. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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