Wednesday, December 25, 2024 Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 licence.

Anthony Burgess

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Outside, the main doors behind him, he was hit full in the chest by autumn. The doggy wind leapt about him and nipped; leaves skirred along the pavement, the scrape of the ferrules of sticks; melancholy, that tetrasyllable, sat on a plinth in the middle of the square. English autumn, and the whistling tiny souls of the dead round the war memorial.

 
Anthony Burgess

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