A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Mike sat down, his body too large for the petite blue couch. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand.
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