There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. The door to the room in question was closed. "You're in danger.
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