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“Only now, when it is too late, do I long for Dearth. I was a misbegotten child of bad blood and bile, and I mistook my own orneriness for cleverness. I presumed to know what happiness was - something I could possess, like a marble, or a man. Something I could only find elsewhere. But just when I started to find it at home, I outfoxed myself and lost it forever.”

Jane Avrich, The Winter Without Milk: Stories
tags: home
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The Winter Without Milk: Stories The Winter Without Milk: Stories by Jane Avrich
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