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— Sylvia Plath"I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain."
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His fingers leave streaks of cold on my skin, invisible to the eye, and I think about wrapping his shirt around my fist and pulling him in to kiss me; I think about pressing myself against him, but I can't, because all our secrets would keep a space between us.
— Veronica Roth
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A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.
— Rudyard Kipling
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