The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Kneebone. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. There were more of us back then, and we weren’t seen as ghouls, in fact, in Greece and the time before we were worshipped as gods.
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