Michael Malone - Weebly

spouse.
Entering the Dingley Day at 8:30 sharp, Mr. Sniffell
slipped on the wet floor and got a sliver of glass in his
finger from the broken window through which last
night's rain had poured. Typically, Hayes still hadn't
fixed it. Nor was Hayes here, though they had agreed
to meet early so that they could write the obituaries of
the teacher Oglethorpe, Sister Mary Joseph, the
watchman Jim Price, and now of the town postman, Alf
Marco, in time for Friday's edition. He washed his
finger under the bathroom faucet with no hope of
avoiding infection. He opened the New York Times. In
the Bronx an elderly couple, immigrants in terror of
being mugged by minority youngsters, had hanged
themselves by tying the rope to the closet doorknob
and then lying down on the floor. Coleman Sniffell
reached for his scissors.
From the gazebo where he drank a mixture of
coffee and sugar with the consistency of molasses, the
octogenarian William Bredforet watched his wife and
chauffeur argue about whether it was too late or too
early to thin out a section of their garden. "Neither one