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A sound of something;
Has fallen down of itself.
In the dark, Joanna Rand went to the window. Naked trembling, she peered between the wooden
Wind from the distant mountains pressed coldly against the glass and rattled a loose pane.
At four o’clock in the morning, the city of Kyoto was quiet, even in Gion, the entertainment quarter
crowded with nightclubs and geisha houses. Kyoto, the spiritual heart of Japan, was a thousand years old
yet as new as a fresh idea: a fascinating hodgepodge of neon signs and ancient temples, plastic
gimcrackery and beautifully hand-carved stone, the worst of modern architecture thrusting up next to
palaces and ornate shrines that were weathered by cen-turies of hot, damp summers and cold, damp
winters. By a mysterious combination of tradition and popular culture, the metropolis renewed her sense
of humanity’s perma-nence and purpose, refreshed her sometimes shaky belief in the importance of the
The earth revolves around the sun; society continuously changes; the city grows; new
generations come forth … and I’ll go on just as they do.
That was always a comforting thought when she was in darkness, alone, unable to sleep, morbidly
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