The Visitation Fancy, if on an evening from your second story looking down lighted street, you mark that distant figure crooked in an overcoat, drunken legs lagging toward you in the dark: "What a night to be out . . . " But the drizzle gutters and still he's coming toward the heart of your cul de sac oblivious to neighbors; Angus barks into the fog. Now only a softened form against the silken lawn the shifting winds make nothing the cry of the weathercock- then dry footsteps on the porch: a thin insistent gentlemanly knock.
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