Susan thinks nothing of her wings, her whirlwinds, the tongues that come spilling out of her mouth, the huge roaring brightness of Anna's existence; she kisses Anna on the lips and curves around her back as if the great wings aren't there, as if her skin isn't burning up against Susan's.
But then Susan Pevensie has ridden on God's back; she has collected His shorn hair. She sees things differently.
But then Susan Pevensie has ridden on God's back; she has collected His shorn hair. She sees things differently.
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