She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage.
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