"Truth, beaten down, may well rise again. But there's a reason it gets beaten down. Usually, we don't like it very much."

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My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

— Suzanne Collins