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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