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Chapter 20

           Thenhehadmadeapillowofthethingshetookoffandgottenintotherobeandthenlainandwaited,feelingthespringoftheboughsundertheflannelly,featheredlightnessoftherobewarmth,watchingthemouthofthecaveacrossthesnow;feelinghisheartbeatashewaited.

           Thenightwasclearandhisheadfeltasclearandcoldastheair.Hesmelledtheodorofthepineboughsunderhim,thepineysmellofthecrushedneedlesandthesharperodoroftheresinoussapfromthecutlimbs.Pilar,hethought.Pilarandthesmellofdeath.ThisisthesmellIlove.Thisandfresh-cutclover,thecrushedsageasyourideaftercattle,wood-smokeandtheburningleavesofautumn.Thatmustbetheodorofnostalgia,thesmellofthesmokefromthepilesofrakedleavesburninginthestreetsinthefallinMissoula.Whichwouldyourathersmell?SweetgrasstheIndiansusedintheirbaskets?Smokedleather?Theodorofthegroundinthespringafterrain?ThesmelloftheseaasyouwalkthroughthegorseonaheadlandinGalicia?OrthewindfromthelandasyoucomeintowardCubainthedark?Thatwastheodorofthecactusflowers,mimosaandthesea-grapeshrubs.Orwouldyourathersmellfryingbaconinthemorningwhenyouarehungry?Orcoffeeinthemorning?OraJonathanappleasyoubitintoit?Oracidermillinthegrinding,orbreadfreshfromtheoven?Youmustbehungry,hethought,andhelayonhissideandwatchedtheentranceofthecaveinthelightthatthestarsreflectedfromthesnow.

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