She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. You would suffer the torments of the damned for what you had done. You're luck. I love you—unendurably. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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