Eleven oclock in the morning. The sun doing its work in the sky.

The men are tiring, said Julie. Perhaps you should give them a break.

Thomas made the "break" signal waving his arm in a downward motion.

The men fell out by the roadside. The cable relaxed in the road.

This grand expedition, the Dead Father said, this waltz across an unknown parquet, this little band of brothers. . .

You are not a brother, Julie reminded him. Do not get waltzed away.

That they should so love me, the Dead Father said, as to haul and haul and haul and haul, through the long days and nights and less than optimal weather conditions. . .

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