Though he feared for her, he sensed that this scene would not be lost, and that by some mechanism of translation or preservation it would last and be free somewhere to start up again. Her motions flowed in a hundred thousand pictures, each on its way through the black cold of archless accommodating space. They would land somewhere, he thought, bravely. Everything always comes to rest, and flourishes. That, anyway, was his hope. -- Mark Helprin
4 Comments:
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glim
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