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So I break into a run. The old bell tower looms ahead, offering shelter, black against the crisscross of lightning. My skirts tangle and I trip again and again. A tree behind me cracks and breaks.
What a way to die! Like that poor old prostitute last year, struck down as she sheltered under an oak.
The sky explodes again with a long, almost human roar. This time my body (so often a traitor to me, as I've been a traitor to it) hears the noise as the cry of a child. Milk springs to my breasts and I scream, "Holy mother!"
Reprinted from Mirabilis by Susann Cokal by permission of Blue Hen, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright (c) 2001 by Susann Cokal. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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