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Unformatted text preview: was a storm for the death of the witch, and I was the witch. And it was my death and my storm. Twenty-four THEY stood in the mist, forming a vague circle. What was that low grinding sound? Was it thunder? They were the most dangerous people he had seen. Ignorance, pov- erty, that was their heritage, and everywhere he saw the common imperfections of the poor and the untended, the hunchback, the man with the club foot, the child whose arms were too short, and all the others, thin-faced, coarse, misshapen and frightening, in their gray and brown garments, to behold. The grinding noise went on and on, too monotonous for thunder. Could they hear it? The sky above pressed down upon them, down upon the entire grassy floor of the glen. The stones did have carvings, the old man in Edinburgh had told Julien the truth. The stones were enormous, and they were all together in the circle. He sat up. He was dizzy. He said, "I don't belong here. This is a dream. I have to go back where I belong. I can't wake up here. B...
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- Spring '10