A beech wood with silver firs in it rolled down the face of the hill, and the maze of leafless twigs and dusky spires cut sharp against the soft blueness of the evening sky.
In the space about the hut her search went on, lifting old tins and boxes and timber to disturb the flat grey woodbugs under them, but finding nothing else there.
Not everyone will be infected when an epidemic strikes.
The women are a phenomenon; the men are a punchline.
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