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иногда29 March 2014 @ 05:32 pm. One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pinprick, but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable. To the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is. Nothing to be done about it. FScott Fitzgerald. Tender Is the Night. Эта книга посвящается Л.
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