‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. It was the girl. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings.
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