What had Hemingway said? Not this August, nor this September-this year you have to do what you like. Ah, the dreadful patient persistence of addiction, he thought. He wandered back toward his study, puffing away and feeling pleasantly lightheaded. 'It'll probably taste like shit,' he said aloud to the empty house (Mrs Gavin had long since gone home), and set fire to the tip of the cigarette. Yeah, it'll be him, all right-the one person in the whole wide world I shouldn't be talking to with my guard down and one half of my mind feeling unbuttoned from the other half. or the round black hat on John Shooter's head. he felt at a loss in a way for which there was perhaps no word. Yet he still felt upset, unsettled, guilty. He picked up the phone thinking it would be Shooter. Time-travellers from another age, riding up through the years, patient cylindrical voyagers, their mission to wait, to persevere, to bide until the proper moment to start me on the road to lung cancer again finally arrives. He stuck one of the cigarettes in his mouth, then went out into the kitchen to get a match from the box by the stove. Time-travellers from another age, Mort thought.
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