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Lisa Toboz
The cloister became a museum; the refuge became a resort. In rooms where the brethren had once laid their heads on wooden pillows and shunned the secular life, people now paid nine good dollars to enter and look. Was there still a scent in the air, perhaps, of devotion? Or the sound, lingering on shafts of light, of hymns? The cloister became a museum; the refuge became a resort. The girl who had come to see it sat in a chair the shape of a heart, the shape of her curved back, the shape of the pear she held in her hand, and rested an elbow on a table. She was silent. She did not have to become anything; she just was.
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