Excerpt:
No one ever built a statue to a critic. (Jean Sibelius)
As cognac burned his throat the knock attracted Tris, Tris led
himself to the door so very distant down the plush-carpeted stairs, and
the black cat stopped before crossing his path, and as he opened it the
door felt like lead. The older man was gaunter, younger, in the queer
corridor light. "Mohammed would not come to the mountain," he said.
"May I come in?"
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