His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. The dismal tolling of St. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. "Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus.
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