She thought the depthless dark of his eyes made him look perpetually sad, somehow more serious than was strictly modern. This made him seem ageless.

There is something undeniably luxurious and simple in being in the presence of such calm. There is no need for showing off an intellect, no need to entertain. All such a soul wants is the companionship and the hope of enjoying a shared moment. Perhaps there is no request as sweet in the world as this one:  Tell me what you are thinking, speak of what is in your mind.

A murmur here, sentences spoken quietly, and the dearness of soft laughter. There is something wonderful in such easy peacefulness.

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Some words are stone arrowheads, dipped in dripping rancor, shot in rage and left lying among the ruins of a bygone time.

Once shot, an arrow cannot be called back. The woman who has let it fly will eventually find it–at the same moment she discovers she is a tenderfoot. There, embedded in her heel, it has found its home. She stumbles to sit, understanding a terrible lesson. The weapon she used has wounded unintended prey.

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