What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. The first peg was torture. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. We’ll go to the shops. “Listen,” she said.
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