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| | The Moving Finger Writes-1 |
 | | Helplessly, pathetically, Gabrielle's fingers waved in the air as she sought her mother, her attention drawn downward by the rough, pale wood of the coffin. |
 | | Yet it was only after she herself had died that she grew to be moved by the living, watching as individual examples of mankind, now met while wandering the earth in her exile, demonstrated a spirit that she knew she had never found in her studies of the body that was left behind. |
 | | Like the spirit of this man who, even asleep, possessed a burning dynamism that she had come to regard as more marvelous than anything else; it was the vital essence of a man that fascinated her now, and the vibrant tension it maintained with his existence, but she couldn't dissect any of it. |
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