Excerpt from The Next Corner
Paris. A June morning with the freshness and sweet ness of the wet, inner leaves of a young rose. Clocks had just finished striking six.
In a room on an entresol that overlooked the uphill Rue de Chaillot a young woman lay asleep. A pencil of the sun had wavered in through the drawn persiennes, had reached her and was rising by almost invisible prog ress over the rose-colored covering to her face. After flickering across a bare shoulder that had slipped from a gown as sheer as a veil, and touching a cheek where wisps of whitish-blond hair clung, it gave a stab at the closed lids whose fringes lay on her pallor like the wings of brown moths.
At its touch they flew open. And they stayed open. This was not a drowsy awakening. The wild look about the room was a net that caught up details.
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