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Unformatted text preview: id. "My beloved Mary Beth burnt every page of those books. All my writing..." His voice was soft with sad wonder, eyebrows rising slightly. "Come in, come closer. Take the chair there. Please. You must listen to me." Michael obeyed, taking the leather chair, the one which he knew to be real, lost now among so many alien dusty objects. He touched the bed. Solid. He heard the creak of the springs! He touched the silken quilt. Real. He was dazed, and marveling. On the mantelpiece stood a pair of silver candlesticks, and the figure had turned and, with the sharp sudden scratch of a match, was putting a light to the wicks. His shoulders were narrow but very straight; he seemed ageless, tall, graceful. When he faced Michael again, the warm yellow light spread out behind him. Perfectly realized, he stood, his blue eyes rather cheerful and open, his face almost rapt. "Yes, my boy," he said. "Look at me! Hear me. You must act now. But let me speak my piece. Ah, do you hear...
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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