In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.

And of all the plagues with which mankind are cursed, Ecclesiastic tyranny's the worst.

A sentence starts out like a lone traveler heading into a blizzard at midnight, tilting into the wind, one arm shielding his face, the tails of his thin coat flapping behind him.

How many times already had I encountered the painful lesson that although we may wish for the barb to be pulled from our flesh, it leaves a welt that doesn't heal?

Written By Arthur Golden

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