She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head.

I am a bad actor." "Not for me or my camera. I see the person, not some idea he wants to make himself into." "I'm all idea today." "I definitely don't see it." "I'm playing the idea of death. Look closely," he said.

Compassion is nothing one feels with the intellect alone. Compassion is particular; it is never general.

Written By Madeleine L'Engle

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Written By Madeleine L&#039;Engle

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Written By Madeleine L'Engle