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I probably coughed self-pityingly in response, little aware that I was about to cross a tremendous threshold beyond which there would be no return, that in my hands I held an object whose simple appearance belied its profound power. All true readers have a book, a moment, like the one I describe, and when Mum offered me that much-read library copy mine was upon me.
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It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?
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His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.
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Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.
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She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.
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Rejection is a cancer, Edie. It eats away at a person.
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To abandon a child, she had once said to someone, when she thought Cassandra couldn't hear, was an act so cold, so careless, it refused forgiveness.
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A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.