“Just a few more days and they’d be into October. Jesse closed the window but the morning chill remained. The house had never been properly insulated and, with its excessive roof overhang, had rarely been warm, even on summer evenings. This cramped living room was especially cold; Eugene Robertson had designed it that way in the days when a parlour was not only reserved for infrequent guests but for the family dead, who were displayed here until buried. The dead were still here, Jesse thought, p...resent even in this windowsill, where much of the ancient putty had come loose and fallen out. Eugene Robertson had once kneaded linseed oil into this putty to keep it from drying as he worked it, and pressed it into place around the panes. He had left his mark on this window—the whorls of his fingers and thumbs—just as he had left his mark on this land, in the whorls of the ancient stumps of the trees he had felled, which still stood in the fields. Some were so huge it would take another hundred years for them to rot and to return to the soil they had sprung from.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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