And all the lives we ever lived

And all the lives to be,

Are full of trees and changing leaves,

And all the lives we ever lived And all the lives to be, Are full of trees and changing leaves,

she murmured, sticking her needles into the stocking. And she opened the book and began reading here and there at random, and as she did so she felt that she was climbing backwards, upwards, shoving her way up under petals that curved over her, so that she only knew this is white, or this is red. She did not know at first what the words meant at all.