The feeling of being unwell persists. It is not possible to tell whether it is just a cold or some other infection. It seems a good and comfortable idea to lie down every now and again.
Today the printer worked hard to produce reasonable pictures of the fifty files left over after several successive inspections. The prints are all right, they are glossy, and there are more than enough of the man who gave the commission. There is no knowing whether or not that is what he wanted, but even without this there are enough pictures.
Fifty six pictures all told, to tell the story of an evening, a family entertainment with a few extra persons thrown in. The man was sixty, after all. And it was his own restaurant.
The town was dreary today, even though the weather was warm. Exhaustion and the ice cold feeling in the legs set in almost at once.
It would be so great to have work and purpose to distract from all of these personal weaknesses.
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