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Acolyte, v. 1, issue 1, Fall 1942
Page 19
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of darker grey on the whirling fog. This much I determined. She was old, agelessly old. And she wore a black fringed shawl muffled up about her face. A barb of stray light glinted on her hat, an altogether pathetic thing made up of an unshaped scrap of cretonne fastened on her dishwater hair by means of an elastic. There was a broken feather poked into it for a decoration. Another vagrant shred of light gave me at last a glimpse of her face. It was like pinched-up dirty clay. One side of it was completely covered by her scarf. She's about frozen, I determined. Must get her out of this raw night air. What with Hitler's "fire-spitting devils" as she called them, the street was scarcely the proper place for a lady, even if perhaps she wasn't a lady. I'd certainly not be on it myself if it hasn't been for just missing young Randall, who I discovered with disgust was on week-end leave. Had to get this blasted letter to him by morning, when my boat sailed... SOMETHING shivery and queer about that woman! I couldn't quite tell what. Maybe it was the furtive way she jumped that black shawl up over one side of her face, whenever I turned to her. She babbled on at great length. About the street, and how long she'd lived there. About the War. The bombings, and the great fire. Suddenly she stopped, and I felt her chilly skeletal fingers close over my hand. She pulled me off the street into blacker darkness. "Is this Duffy Miller's?" "No," she cackled shrilly, "but I've got something in here to show you, as will surprise you." "I don't really think I..." "Only take a minute." She was ingratiatingly insistent. I allowed her to lead me into the darkness. "Maybe you was thinkin' I'm one of those born-old hussies," she rattled, her horny claw vising down on my wet hand. "Well, this'll change your mind about me, it will! Do you have any notion who I am?" I replied I hadn't an idea. "I'm Lana Tuppit, that's who I am!" "I-Is that a fact?" The name meant absolutely nothing to me. "Of course they call me Old Lana Tuppit, now. For years they 'ave." As she tugged me onward, into what seemed to be the shadowy entrance to a large theater, shrouded in heavy fog, it presently be-
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of darker grey on the whirling fog. This much I determined. She was old, agelessly old. And she wore a black fringed shawl muffled up about her face. A barb of stray light glinted on her hat, an altogether pathetic thing made up of an unshaped scrap of cretonne fastened on her dishwater hair by means of an elastic. There was a broken feather poked into it for a decoration. Another vagrant shred of light gave me at last a glimpse of her face. It was like pinched-up dirty clay. One side of it was completely covered by her scarf. She's about frozen, I determined. Must get her out of this raw night air. What with Hitler's "fire-spitting devils" as she called them, the street was scarcely the proper place for a lady, even if perhaps she wasn't a lady. I'd certainly not be on it myself if it hasn't been for just missing young Randall, who I discovered with disgust was on week-end leave. Had to get this blasted letter to him by morning, when my boat sailed... SOMETHING shivery and queer about that woman! I couldn't quite tell what. Maybe it was the furtive way she jumped that black shawl up over one side of her face, whenever I turned to her. She babbled on at great length. About the street, and how long she'd lived there. About the War. The bombings, and the great fire. Suddenly she stopped, and I felt her chilly skeletal fingers close over my hand. She pulled me off the street into blacker darkness. "Is this Duffy Miller's?" "No," she cackled shrilly, "but I've got something in here to show you, as will surprise you." "I don't really think I..." "Only take a minute." She was ingratiatingly insistent. I allowed her to lead me into the darkness. "Maybe you was thinkin' I'm one of those born-old hussies," she rattled, her horny claw vising down on my wet hand. "Well, this'll change your mind about me, it will! Do you have any notion who I am?" I replied I hadn't an idea. "I'm Lana Tuppit, that's who I am!" "I-Is that a fact?" The name meant absolutely nothing to me. "Of course they call me Old Lana Tuppit, now. For years they 'ave." As she tugged me onward, into what seemed to be the shadowy entrance to a large theater, shrouded in heavy fog, it presently be-
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