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Updated: May 16, 2025
There was no fire in this wind-swept chamber of Auntie Jan's. Tony dozed and woke and woke and dozed, getting colder and more forlorn and miserable with each change of position. The sheets seemed made of ice, so slippery were they, so unkind and unyielding and unembracing. Presently he saw a dim light. Auntie Jan had come to bed, carrying a candle.
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