Unformatted text preview: didn't. They would have told me." When he felt the knob, and realized he couldn't open it, he was about to ram it with his shoulder. "Aaron!" he shouted again. A click inside. The little lock turning. The door popping back, just a little as if of its own accord. Doors all have their own pace and rhythm, their own way of opening or closing. Doors in New Orleans are never neat or efficient about it. In summer this door would swell up and scarcely close. Now it danced open. He stared at it, at the white wooden panels. Inside the candles 479 gleamed as before. Flicker on the silk of the tester, on the marble fireplace. Aaron was speaking to him. Aaron said a name behind him. It sounded Russian. And the blond man said softly: "But he asked for me, Aaron. He called me. The priest told me. He asked that I come." He walked into the room. The candles were the only light. They were blazing on the little altar, and the Virgin's shadow rose up the wall, jittering and dancing as...
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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