" Because more than sorry for him, I felt a terrible sameness with Llewellyn, itching like an old scar. I knew something about the pain and the longing that so clearly filled the man--swole up inside him like the bruises on his hands; fit to burst, fit to bleed, fit at last to be said and down away with. I knew too well the ache of loving somebody who just plain don't love you, and never will. "
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