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... x had his palm pressed flat over them—all seven arranged in a line on the warm rock before him, the sun moving across them as the morning progressed—and they gave him nothing. No hum. No flicker. No whisper of the chord they’d made together for a year.
But every time his hand pressed against his belly instead, the small lives inside responded.
Not to the stones. To him.
He thought about that for a long time while Siddy explained, in exhaustive detail, his theory about the ...
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