I heard the first raindrops strike the porch roof beneath her. I felt them on my face: I saw the trees begin to move in their fury. And I heard the wind, wailing as if he were wailing, lashing the trees and crying in his grief as he had on the death of my mother, and on the death of her mother. Yes, it was a storm for the death of the witch, and I was the witch. And it was my death and my storm.
-Anne Rice
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