The sky was white but deteriorating fast. As always, it was becoming an enormous drop sheet. Blood was bleeding through, and in patches, the clouds were dirty, like footprints in melting snow.
Footprints? you ask.
Well, I wonder whose those could be.
Footprints? you ask.
Well, I wonder whose those could be.
( Markus Zusak )
[ The Book Thief ]
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