It was good to be strong enough for everything, even if all you made melted and changed and slipped under your hands, so that by the time you finished you almost forgot what you were working for. What was it I set out to do? she asked herself intently, but she could not remember. A fog rose over the valley, she saw it marching across the creek swallowing the trees and moving up the hill like an army of ghosts. Soon it would be near the edge of the orchard, and then it was time to go in and light the lamps.
Katherine Anne Porter, THE JILTING OF GRANNY WEATHERALL, 1930.
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