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She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair. She wasn't innocent now, but she didn't know what to do about it. This was her life: magic and shame and secrets and teeth and a deep, nagging hollow at the center of herself where something was most certainly missing.
— Laini Taylor
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How unjust then to meet that person you love, and be kept away from them only because ones bed is made of hay , and the other, feathers.
— Kristin Cashore
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