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Unformatted text preview: had to check every crevice and crack. He found it still and dark. The little landing at the top of the stairs was empty. The street lamp shone through the window. The storage room lay with its door open, all empty shelves clean and white and waiting for something. He turned and opened the door of Julien's old room, his own workroom. The first thing he saw was the two windows opposite, the window on the right, beneath which Julien had died in his narrow bed, and the window on the left, through which Antha had fled only to fall to her death from the edge of the porch roof. Like two eyes, these windows. The shades were up; the soft light of early evening flooded in on the bare boards and on his drafting table. Only those were not bare boards. On the contrary, a threadbare rug lay there, and where his drafting table should have been was the nar- row brass bed, which had long ago been moved out of here. He groped for the light. "Please don't turn it on." The voice was frayed and soft, French. "Who the hell...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10