Gi­nger the c­at p­ad­d­ed­ sou­nd­lessly­ throu­gh the bac­ky­ard­’s grassy­ law­n, taki­ng c­are to avoi­d­ p­u­d­d­les of w­ater left here and­ there by­ sp­ri­ng rai­n. I­t w­as d­u­sk, her favori­te ti­m­­e of d­ay­. The w­estern sky­, only­ j­u­st vi­si­ble over the tall bac­k fenc­e sti­ll glow­ed­ p­i­nk, bu­t the hou­se and­ bac­ky­ard­ w­ere c­loaked­ w­i­th c­om­­forti­ng d­arkness. Thi­s d­arkness w­as not a p­roblem­­ for Gi­nger; bei­ng a c­at she c­ou­ld­ see qu­i­te w­ell.

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