In the end, there's always the girl who understands
locks and a bone-toothed comb, the one who crawls under the table,
crams into the mouse hole, the one who gives the witch the wrong
directions. There's always the girl who knows the language of rabbits
and convinces them to let her ride astride, the girl who can live on
breadcrumbs and fog, who clings to the giant's ankle until he gets
tired of stumbling around the kitchen, looking for a cooking pot, and
falls asleep. There's always one left, the one who cuts off her hair
to make a rope (if that's what it takes), the one who talks the
blue-bellied salmon into carrying her across the river, the one
who takes the diamonds of her tears and sells them for a good pair of boots.
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