“They say, he whispers, his lips making the word-shapes on her shoulder, there is a river that heals all wounds. It is pure white, like snow or the blossoms of prarie-cotton. You are my white river. If I die, I… — Margaret Lawrence Copy Share Image
“They say, he whispers, his lips making the word-shapes on her shoulder, there is a river that heals all wounds. It is pure white,… — Margaret Lawrence Copy Share Image
“Every civilization built upon riches has died stillborn, ebbed away or fallen of its own weight. Once the inner eye glimpses wealth, the individual… — Margaret Lawrence Copy Share Image
