The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. Lord, I am sixty. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. Paul's are his work. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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