"Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

Gently the waves would break (Lily heard them in her sleep); tenderly the light fell (it seemed to come through her eyelids). And it all looked, Mr. Carmichael thought, shutting his book, falling asleep, much as it used to look years ago.
Gently the waves would break (Lily heard them in her sleep); tenderly the light fell (it seemed to c...
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