#page 232

In addition to the effects of the presumed stroke, Mags's District accent makes it hard for Katniss to understand her at first. I'm desperate to know what District 4's accent sounds like. I've long imagined them in the Gulf of Mexico. Is it a NOLA accent? Does Finnick talk like he's from Nawlins?

How on earth was I supposed to concentrate on research now, with a marriage proposal from one of the Folk dangling over my head? I could almost imagine myself a maiden in one of the stories, but stories didn't leave dirty teacups scattered throughout the cottage, or underline passages in my books - in ink - no matter how many times I ordered them not to.

"What's the meat in here flavouring the broth? If there's chunks, it's all rendered down." You closed your eyes and tried to think. It was so difficult. You so badly wanted to sleep. You were doing so many things at once–your sole remaining powers of concentration were given over to this moment. For a second or two you forgot the word you were looking for–it was on the tip of your tongue–while you were building, minutely, stromal cell by stromal cell. "Marrow," you said. The Saint of Duty exploded outward as your construct emerged from his abdomen. Your soup was watery and mediocre, as soup went, but as a delivery method for gelid explosives–marrow rendered through so much water as to not pass comment–it was perfect.