She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. 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. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition.
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