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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