Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. You know—I worship you. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. David Courtlaw.
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