Unformatted text preview: hear me, I'll talk to her, she'll tell me what happened. Jesus Christ, Julien, she is alive. The hour is not yet come." As the car moved onto Magazine Street and headed downtown, the rest of the poem came back to him, all of it, a long string of dark and dreamy words. He heard Julien's voice, with the fancy French accent illuminating the letters, just as surely as the old monks had illuminated letters when they painted them bright red or gold and decorated them with tiny figures and leaves. Beware the watchers in that hour Bar the doctors from the house Scholars will but nourish evil Scientists would raise it high. "Isn't it the most terrible thing?" Henri was saying. "All of those poor women. To think of it, all of them dead the same way." "What the hell are you talking about?" asked Michael. He wanted a cigarette. He could smell that sweet cheroot of Julien's. The fragrance clung to his clothes. Like a bolt it came back. Julien lighting that cheroot, inhaling and then waving to him. And the deep glint of the brass bed in the room,...
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- Spring '10
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