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84 Weariness Having gone as far as I can go, I stop. A year now since Meg was killed. I pray she never heard the shot that blew the ball into her head, nor the boys felt the Shawnee’s cruel knives. This year of wandering is like an isinglass that warps me to my parts. The green river beside me is rising from this week’s rain, but loneliness is its leaven. The great sycamore’s hollow is a darkness, and leaf goes on to leaf and makes a roof that cuts me off from heaven. Even the titmouse chatters that the world is wearing down. ...

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