You want music. Your adoptive father understands mankind better. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword.
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