May 7, 2009

Unwritten



"She was a girl. But she was my little girl.
She was an exquisite little bundle with hands so tiny that they were like the palms of a little frog, with eyes so dark a blue that they were like the sky above Hever at midnight. She had a dusting of black hair on the crown of her head...she had [his] kissable rosebud mouth. When she yawned she looked like a very king, bored with insufficient praise. When she cried, she squeezed real tears onto her outraged pink cheeks, like a monarch denied his rights. When I fed her, holding her in my arms and marveling at the insistant, powerful sucking...she swelled like a lamb and
slept as if she were a drunkard lolling beside a tankard of mead.

"I held her in my arms constantly...and I cunningly kept her to myself. I fell in love with her. I fell completely and utterly in love with her and I could not for a moment imagine that anything would have been better if she had been a boy."

-From The Other Boleyn Girl, by Philippa Gregory

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