When the messenger won't tell you what the hell the message is, my trigger finger gets twitchy. Dismissed.

My mother makes the best cider in Lincolnshire. She swears it is because she always includes a number of rotten apples in the mix. I was wondering if this could be true of people - if the world needs a few rotten people to make the sweetest mix. This would explain the problem of God allowing evil in the world.

Paul sat back. He had used the questions and hyperawareness to do what his mother called “registering” the person. He had Kynes now—tone of voice, each detail of face and gesture.

Written By Frank Herbert

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