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beautiful December grapes, blue as plums, every grape a little skinful of sweet, tasteless water
— Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
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There was nowhere to go, but I turned to go and met Atticus's vest front. I buried my head in it and listened to the small internal noises that went on behind the light blue cloth: his watch ticking, the faint crackle of his starched shirt, the soft sound of his breathing. 'Your stomach's growling,' I said. 'I know it,' he said.
— Harper Lee
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