"In the brush doing what it is doing, it will stumble on what one could not do by oneself."

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Celia laughs and a curl of her hair falls across her cheek. Marco tentatively moves to brush it off her face, but before his fingers reach her, she pushes herself off the ledge, her silver gown a billowing cloud as she falls onto the pile of jewel-toned cushions.

— Erin Morgenstern