Bokelskere.no

The wind pours down North Parade and soaks right through her. The air moves past her mouth, too fast for her lips to catch. She stands still, waiting for a breath to come her way, utterly insubstantial. It occurs to her that she died some weeks ago and never noticed. Perhaps the whole city is populated with ghosts, and their faces are made of powder, and their hooped skirts are empty as bells.

Frances seemed to think that because the good suffer in this imperfect world, those who suffer must be good.

Suddenly I was shouting. "Does it not say in the Book of Leviticus, Thou shalt not put a stumbling block before the blind?"

If we cannot love each other through times like these, then what we thought a rock beneath us is turned to shifting sands.