But what about the old ugly hag? Wasn’t she tender and lighthearted before? There must have been a time when the light shone on her face and the flowers grew where she went; what, then, caused her heart to turn cold? When did her love turn to suspicion, and then to fear and fatalism? Wasn’t she simply trying to protect herself? What does she dare not believe now?
If inner beauty cannot be fabricated, how does one attain it? How does one grow soft? How do you hope in the world again?
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