His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. There was no one stirring in the flats. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. All they left it was the moon and stars. ” Diane’s voice resonated up the stairs. ” “To bad rubbish.
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