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You'll beat this. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will. You're a survivor. I don't want to survive it. I know that, too, Nell had said. And it's fair enough. But sometimes we don't have a choice.
Kate Morton
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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Enough
Survive
Feel
Beat
Sometimes
Fairs
Feels
Fair
Like
Beats
Choice
Choices
Nell
Doesn
Survivor
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Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
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There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.
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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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They say everyone needs something to love.
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I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.
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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
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She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.
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Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.
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The girl in the mirror caught my eye briefly...It is an uncanny feeling, that rare occasion when one catches a glimpse of oneself in repose. An unguarded moment, stripped of artifice, when one forgets to fool even oneself.
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She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
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Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.
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After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.
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She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.
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It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.
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She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
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