The Language Of Paradise: A Novel - Plot & Excerpts
He woke the next morning to that same honeyed light drizzling through a gap in the curtains, the back of winter broken in some silent tussle overnight. Frost had beaded into droplets on the windowpane, and the frail young birch whose branches scraped at the glass with every gust of wind was as peaceful as a palm in an oasis. The sight of the tree gave him courage to open the latch. He stood in his nightshirt, basking in the mild, moist air. It was only the January thaw, not likely to last more than a day or two, but even a sham spring was enough to infect him with a mix of languor and restlessness. In the kitchen he helped himself to bread and cheese, and ate standing as the dog, drunk on earthy smells long withheld, rolled and whimpered at his feet. Fanny and Sophy came in just as he finished. Wednesday was their morning for making calls to struggling families in the parish. He had watched as they approached the house, swinging their empty basket between them like a pair of schoolgirls.
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