Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. "I know you'll not deceive me. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done.
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