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Although it was so brilliantly fine, the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardin Publiques. Miss Brill was glad she decided on her fur.
The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again leaf came drifting- from nowhere, from the sky
Miss Brill had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into it. The nose on the fur, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow...
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