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“In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”

William Faulkner

So, die, you darling, die:
I lift to my lips a cobalt blue glass and sip raspberry tea, rattling with ice cubes.  The glass is sweating profusely in the unaccustomed humidity; droplets of condensation drip from its nether edge and hit my tee-shirt like tiny water balloons.  If I were to go out walking this very minute, what would passersby think of my tee-shirt speckled with dark blots of moisture just in this one small area of midriff ?  I imagine Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock glancing my way, his eyebrow rising, one corner of his mouth quirking wryly,  putting period to his deductions with a single soft Humph! of amusement.
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