Open the blue door! Please let us in; we're afraid of the dark and the fires and the looting and shopping, the people swarming the streets.
But inside isn't the right place. There's silence, but no stillness. Feast-day ornaments hang rigidly from spiky branches. The lady has no baton, but she conducts; you'd best be a believer too. And the boy! Don't let the puffy vest fool you, or the pale expressionless lashes. That cold-blooded boy sees everything, everything, and he judges.
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