There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols.
[…] This blows my heart: If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean Shall outstrike thought: but thought will do’t, I feel.
I saw all shapes of death, And minister’d to many, o’er the plain While carnage in the sun-beam’s warmth did seethe, Till twilight o’er the east wove her serenest wreath.
At the beginning of her career in Quebec, Bujold represented a modern Quebecoise but as she embarks on a series of transnational migrations, her Quebecois-ness is muted.
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