He hated horizons. I can vouch for that. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. He held in his hands many threads. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening.
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