Now it was ominous. It meant, he knew, that nothing could be changed.

They have never known pain, he thought.

He found that he was often angry, now: irrationally angry at his groupmates, that they were satisfied with their lives which had none of the vibrance his own was taking on. And he was angry at himself, that he could not change that for them.

But the reason for precision of language was to ensure that unintentional lies were never uttered.

He had walked through woods, and sat at night beside a campfire. Although he had through the memories learned about the pain of loss and loneliness, now he gained, too, an understanding of solitude and its joy.

He had been frightened then. The sense of his own community silent, waiting, had made his stomach churn. He had trembled.

Lily’s feelings were always straightforward, fairly simple, usually easy to resolve. He guessed that his own had been, too, when he was a Seven.

“But there are two of us now,” Jonas said eagerly. “Together we can think of something!” The Giver watched him with a wry smile.

“It was so—oh, I wish language were more precise! The red was so beautiful!”