And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. ‘It is nothing at all of the kind. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ” He said as they parted company. ” He glanced over at her cockeyed, and then returned his gaze to the road. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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