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“I don't care anymore. I'm sick of hiding in the shadows." I am half sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott. The line flitted across Biddy's mind in Rowan's softest lilt, along with a flicker of firelight in the castle library, the sound of rain lashing outside, a cold draft through the half-open window that seemed to bring with it the promise of adventure. She had been perhaps six or seven, hearing the poem read to her for the first time. It had thrilled and spellbound her: the woman in the tower, longing for life and experience, the bold knight outside, the ebb and flow of the rhyme as relentless and inevitable as a river.” — H.G. Parry
I don't care anymore. I'm sick of hiding in the shadows."
I am half sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott. The line flitted across Biddy's mind in Rowan's softest lilt, along with a flicker of firelight in the castle library, the sound of rain lashing outside, a cold draft through the half-open window that seemed to bring with it the promise of adventure. She had been perhaps six or seven, hearing the poem read to her for the first time. It had thrilled and spellbound her: the woman in the tower, longing for life and experience, the bold knight outside, the ebb and flow of the rhyme as relentless and inevitable as a river.