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“Behind me, the cries of the gulls on the wind are scratches of silver in the sky. And it smells of smoke, and the carnival, and of the river in the sun, and sugared dough fried on the hot plate, and herbs to heal a troubled heart. I walk from the harbor and do not look back. Vianne, or Mother? Vianne it is.” — Joanne Harris
Behind me, the cries of the gulls on the wind are scratches of silver in the sky. And it smells of smoke, and the carnival, and of the river in the sun, and sugared dough fried on the hot plate, and herbs to heal a troubled heart. I walk from the harbor and do not look back.
Vianne, or Mother?
Vianne it is.