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Updated: May 23, 2025
Then he walked down the broad sweep of the driveway, the gravel crunching under the grass, and across what had been a bit of velvet lawn, and stood for a moment with his hand on a broken vase, weed-filled, which capped the stone post of a gateway. All the garden was misty with memories.
Night, and the fungus-fouled long jaws, and slimy, weed-filled water the creak of rusty hinges a splash the bang of a falling trap a swirl in the moonlit water, and ring after heavy, widening ring that lapped at last against the stone would write conclusion to a tragedy. There would be no record kept. Howrah was childless. That, of all the hell-sent troubles that beset him, was the worst.
A slashing grip of his teeth in the shoulder of her white dress and a lightning heave of his mighty neck and shoulders and the little form was hurtling through the air and into the weed-filled wayside ditch. In practically the same instant Chum's body whizzed into the air again. But this time by no impetus of its own.
At the top of the hill, reluctant to go back to the town that lay beyond, he stood contemplating the ancient school building that held so bravely its commanding position, and looked so pitiful in its shabby old age. Then passing through a gap in the tumble-down fence, and crossing the weed-filled yard, he entered the building.
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