He stood outside of the car, bewildered, as she walked up to the BMW’s front bumper. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. She looked at him mournfully.
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