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| | The Timelost |
 | | I cannot tell them, and they cannot believe me, that I do not know when first I make a clothes-Idril to sit and smile and speak the words they are begging of her as a mother begs this word and that of a babe. |
 | | Idril is still, she is Not-Idril, she becomes stone — but no, stone lives, stone moves, so slowly, but hot and fiery it dances in Arda's heart, and Idril — is like the dust of stone blown away from the sculptor's chisel, forgotten, unthought of, shaping nothing, meaningless and lacking all weight. |
 | | This is Idril we speak of, Idril, who from her earliest could never remain still, who at Valmar must be back in Tirion, and in Tirion must be at Alqualondë, and at Alqualondë must be upon the shore to race the curlews in the waves! |
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