But it was there, and it was not burned, and its sightless, glassy eyes stared blindly up at June.
As the beginnings of panic began to grip her mind, a memory welled up inside her, a memory from her youth.
It was a bit of poetry, from Milton:
Comes the Blind Fury with th’abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life.
Very quietly, June Pendleton began to cry.