“That made love—not grace—the magic ingredient. Then anew thought hit her. Perhaps love was grace. A shiver wentup her spine. What did that make anger? The antithesis ofgrace?”
Penelope Marzec“That made love—not grace—the magic ingredient. Then anew thought hit her. Perhaps love was grace. A shiver wentup her spine. What did that make anger? The antithesis ofgrace?”
Penelope Marzec, A Rush of Light“She did not want to know what charmhe had used to make her love him so deeply. She did not want to know it wasn’t real.”
Penelope Marzec, The Fiend of White Buck Hall