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The verse struck a painful chord. Morgan's wife, Joan, had died five years ago, after a long bout with cancer. Morgan, like Akhmatova, perhaps like the Vicar, too, knew something about loneliness. |
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As a sidebar to the thought, he wondered how the Canadian agents knew that the bush pilot had been one of Neville's lovers. And why did that make them seem more like snoops and less like spooks? |
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Tripoli, a large and scarred tomcat of uncertain age, appeared in the open kitchen window. When Morgan rented the house, the beast had adopted him in the mysterious manner of cats. The sliced ham on the sill was for Tripoli. He inspected it carefully before beginning to eat. |
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Mrs. James, Morgan's venerable landlady who lived in the main house, tried often to tempt Tripoli out of his wandering ways with delicacies and covered sleeping baskets. But Tripoli was, like Morgan, given to the life of a rogue male, coming and going on silent errands and duties, sometimes being absent for days. Morgan understood this. There was always an open window in Morgan's house for Tripoli. |
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For all his battered appearance, Tripoli was unfailingly fastidious about his ham, a favorite food. He began to eat, silently and efficiently. When he had finished, he uttered a single guttural trill of thanks, dropped to the kitchen floor with a twenty-pound thump, and walked into the living room to climb into his favorite chair in front of the television set, where he set about grooming himself. |
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Morgan finished his sandwich and downed the last of his beer standing at the kitchen sink. He boiled a pan of water and made a cup of instant coffee, which he drank without pleasure. When he had finished, he put pan, cup, and glass in the dishwasher and turned on the appliance. |
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The mail was trash and went into the round file. He followed Tripoli into the living room to watch the late television news. The President and the First Lady were partying with celebrities in one part of town, while drive-by shootings and |
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