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Please, Katsa, he finally said. At least talk to me. She swung around to face him. What it there to talk about? You know how I feel, and what I think about it. And what I feel? Doesn't it matter?
Kristin Cashore
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Kristin Cashore
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: June 10
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Around
Swung
Matter
Finally
Feel
Please
Feels
Least
Think
Talk
Thinking
Face
Faces
Doesn
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She cried like a person whose heart is broken and wondered how, when two people loved each other, there could be such a broken heart.
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We're going to win this war, you know, now that our army's together. But the world doesn't care who wins. It'll go on spinning, no matter how many people are slaughtered. After a moment, he added. I almost wish it wouldn't, if we aren't allowed to go on spinning with it.
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His last thought was that it hadn't been stupidity that had allowed his son to enchant him so easily with words. It had been love.
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Now we just need to find someone who is close to the king but is really a spy for Mydogg. That should be easy. I could probably shoot an arrow out the window and hit one.
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Bacon improved things dramatically.
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For a group of people who claimed to be concerned for her safety, they did seem to have developed rather a habit of encouraging uprisings against monarchs.
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While I was looking the other way your fire went out. Left me with cinders to kick into dust, what a waste of the wonder you were
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Fire sat unbreathing. A life that was an apology for the life of his father: It was a notion she could understand, beyond words and thought. She understood it the way she understood music.
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Then she marched to the pillows and beat them mercilessly until they lay puffed out like obedient clouds.
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It was just that she had the need to tell him something honest, something honest and unhappy, because cheerful lies tonight were too depressing and too sharp, turning in on her like pins
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That was what they did with themselves, those two Gracelings, along with a small band of friends: They stirred up trouble on a serious scale—bribery, coercion, sabotage, organized rebellion—all directed at stopping the worst behavior of the world’s most seriously corrupt kings.
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That's interesting, Bitterblue said. You think a conscience requires fear?
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I’m bored to death. Perhaps I should pillage one of my neighbors for my own amusement. It seems to work for Drowden.
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As she left the room, Po went to Katsa, pulled her up, sat himself in her chair, and drew her into his lap. Shushing her, he rocked her, the two of them holding on to each other as if it were the only thing keeping the world from bursting apart.
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And you may blame me for your feelings, but it isn't fair to blame me for how you've chosen to behave.
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Katsa sat in the darkness of the Sunderan forest and understood three truths. She loved Po. She wanted Po. And she could never be anyone's but her own.
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He made her drunk, this man made her drunk and every time his eyes flashed into hers she could not breathe.
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He leaned heavily on the desk now, as if danger had strengthened him before and its lack now made him weak.
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