WEBVTT

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Now, the Roma Wine Company of Fresno, California presents...

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Suspense!

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Tonight, Roma wines bring you the distinguished actor, Mr. Ronald Coleman,

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in one of the great suspense stories of our time, August Heat.

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Suspense is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines.

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That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines.

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Those excellent California wines that can add so much pleasantness to the way you live,

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to your happiness and entertaining guests, to your enjoyment of everyday meals.

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Before we bring you Ronald Coleman and our suspense play,

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here's a brief message from Elsa Maxwell, famed for her great charm as a hostess.

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When food looks appetizing, it almost always lives up to expectations.

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When even so simple a main dish as a steaming fragrant bowl of spaghetti or beans

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is surrounded by bright green salads, golden rolls or muffins,

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and brilliant Roma California burgundy, the food is more enjoyable, more delightful.

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And for a summery touch of the outdoors, a vase of flowers,

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perfect color complement to the deep rich beauty of Roma Burgundy.

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You'll enjoy the fruity, robust taste.

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The tart piquancy of distinguished Roma Burgundy served cool.

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Truly a masterpiece of fine winemaking.

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Like all Roma wines, Roma Burgundy is unburyingly good,

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always high in quality of bouquet, color and taste.

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The happy reward of selected grapes brought slowly to perfection,

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gently pressed, then carefully guided to flavor fullness

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for the ancient skill of Roma's noted wineries in California's choicest vineyards.

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Yet all this goodness is yours for only pennies a glass.

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Remember, more Americans enjoy Roma than any other wine.

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R-O-M-A, Roma wines.

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Yes, right now a glass full would be very pleasant,

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as Roma wines bring you a remarkable tale of suspense.

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And with August Heat, W.F. Harvey's matchless narrative of premonition

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and the brooding terror of Twilight and the Unseen,

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and with the performance of Ronald Coleman,

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Roma wines hope indeed to keep you in suspense.

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The Unseen

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Fenniston Road, Clampham, August 20, 1945.

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I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life.

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And while the events are still fresh in my mind,

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I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.

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Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Wyverncroft.

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You must remember that in order to have the full implication of my story.

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James Clarence Wyverncroft.

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I'm 40 years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness.

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By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one,

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but I earn enough money by my black and white work to satisfy my necessary wants.

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My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago,

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so that there is no one in particular to whom I address this manuscript.

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Only you, who might by chance read it some day.

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For because of the peculiar circumstance about which you will soon hear,

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I have the strong premonition that I shall never live to tell anyone about it.

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I breakfasted this morning at nine at the usual time.

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It was no different from any other morning.

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And after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe,

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and I proceeded to let my mind wander,

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in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

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The room, the door and window were open,

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and I was able to see the

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I breakfasted this morning at nine at the usual time.

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It was no different from any other morning.

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And after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe,

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and I proceeded to let my mind wander,

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in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

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The room, the door and window were open, was oppressively hot,

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and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander,

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in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

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The room, the door and window were open, was oppressively hot,

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and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander,

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and I just made up my mind to let my mind wander,

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when I was suddenly shaken,

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a feeling swept over me such as I'd never experienced before.

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I attempted to rise to my feet,

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but somehow it seemed as though I had suddenly been fastened to my chair.

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My hand went out in an effort to brace myself.

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And then, before I knew what I was doing,

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my pencil was in my hand, and I began to draw.

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It was as though someone had taken my hand

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and was moving it across the paper, swiftly, in bold strokes.

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And then, I seemed to take over.

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My hand, under its own power, began to draw.

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I soon forgot the oppressive heat.

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Everything was forgotten in this frantic feeling

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that the sketch must be finished as soon as possible.

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I had no idea how long I'd worked until I heard the clock

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of St. Jude's in the distance.

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It was four o'clock, and I had started just after breakfast.

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Now, for the first time since I'd begun,

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I actually seemed to see what I had been sketching.

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I was surprised.

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The final result was, I felt sure, the best thing I'd ever done.

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It showed a criminal in the dark

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immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence.

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The man was fat, enormously fat.

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The flesh hung in rolls about his chin.

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It creased his huge, stumpy neck.

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He was clean-shaven, or perhaps I should say,

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a few days before he must have been clean-shaven,

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and he was almost bald.

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He stood there before the judge, his short, clumsy fingers

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clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him.

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The feeling that his expression conveyed

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was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

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There seemed nothing in the man strong enough

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to sustain that mountain of flesh.

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And then, and then I saw that the sketch wasn't complete,

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for the man's other hand seemed to be clutching

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an instrument of some kind, a weapon,

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but it hadn't been completed.

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I had made this sketch, and yet I had no recollection

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of what I'd intended the man to carry in his other hand.

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I took up my pencil again,

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and I attempted to fill in the fuzzy outline,

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but it was useless.

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It was as though my fingers had suddenly turned to lead.

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I sat down, and I felt the moisture

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slowly forming on my forehead.

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And once again, I was conscious of the oppressive heat.

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Then I knew that there would be no finishing of the sketch,

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at any rate not for the moment,

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so I rolled it up, and without quite knowing why,

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I put it in my pocket.

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In spite of my peculiar inspiration,

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I was filled with a rare sense of happiness,

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which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives.

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I believed that I set out with the idea

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of calling upon Trenton,

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for I remember walking along Lytton Street,

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and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road.

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At the bottom of the hill were the men

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who were at work on the new tram line.

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From there onwards, I have only the vaguest recollection

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of where I went,

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through parks, along crowded streets,

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always conscious of the awful heat

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that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement

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in a suffocating wave.

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And I remember, too, the hollow sound of my footsteps

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as I moved along.

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After walking aimlessly, I somehow knew that there was a goal,

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something to which I was drawn.

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I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks

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of copper-coloured clouds that hung low over the western sky.

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I've really no idea how far I walked

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when a small boy roused me from my abstraction.

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You've got the time, mister.

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Twenty minutes to seven.

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Thanks.

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All enough for you, sir?

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Yes.

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When he left me, I began to take stock of my bearings.

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I found myself standing before a gate

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that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth.

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There were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium,

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and great numbers of bees droned over them.

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I stood looking down at them for a moment,

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and then, for some reason, I looked up.

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Over the entrance to the place, there was a board

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with the inscription Charles Atkinson,

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Monumental Mason,

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worker in English and Italian marbles.

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From the yard itself came a cheery whistle,

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the noise of hammer blows and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.

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A sudden impulse made me enter,

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and I went in in the direction of the noise.

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There was a man sitting with his back towards me.

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He was busy at work on a slab of curiously-painted marble.

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Then, without turning, his hammer stopped in midair

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as he was about to bring it down on his chisel.

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He held his position a moment before turning,

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but I knew that he was aware of my presence,

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and when he turned, I saw his face.

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It was, although I'd never seen him before,

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it was the face of the man I had been drawing.

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Yes, it was the face of the man whose sketch was in my pocket.

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He sat there on his lowest tool, huge in elephantine,

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the sweat pouring from his scalp, not speaking.

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Then he took a red-soaked handkerchief and he mopped his brow.

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Although this face that looked up at me was the same as my sketch,

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the expression was absolutely different.

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Suddenly the puzzled expression left his face,

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and he smiled as if we were old friends,

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and he walked over and he took my hand.

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Good day, sir.

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Good day. I am sorry to intrude.

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Not at all.

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Everything is so hot and glary outside.

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This is like an oasis in the wilderness.

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I don't know about an oasis, but it certainly is hot.

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Take a seat, sir.

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He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work,

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and I sat down.

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Very hot.

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That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of.

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In a way it is.

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The surface here is as fine as anything you could wish,

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but there's a big flaw at the back.

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Oh, I don't expect you'd notice it.

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Oh, I shouldn't think so.

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I could never really do a good job at a bit of marble like that.

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It would be all right in the summer like this.

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Wouldn't mind a blasted heat.

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Wait until the winter comes.

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Winter?

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There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.

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A gravestone, you see.

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Oh, I see.

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Then what's this one for?

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You'd hardly believe if I was to tell you, but it's for exhibition.

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It's the truth.

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Artists have exhibitions, so do grocers and butchers.

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Oh, we have them too.

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All the latest little things in Edstowns, you know.

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He went on to talk of marbles,

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which sort of marble best withstood wind and rain,

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and which were easiest to work.

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Then of his garden and some new sort of carnation he had bought.

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At the end of every other minute, he would drop his tools,

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wipe his shining head.

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This heat.

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This heat's bad.

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A man's not responsible for what he does in this heat.

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I said little, for I felt uneasy.

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There was something unnatural, uncanny in all of this,

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the feeling that I'd experienced it all before.

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The oppressive heat, the fragrance of the stucks in the air,

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the conversation about the marble, the flowers,

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everything as though I had experienced it before.

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And yet I knew that I'd never ever been in this section of town before.

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I tried to persuade myself that at least I'd seen him before.

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That his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory.

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But I knew that I was practicing little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.

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As I sat there quietly watching him, he looked up at me and he said...

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There! What do you think of that?

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He said it with an air of evident pride, of a job well done.

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I could sense that he was experiencing the same feeling I had experienced

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when I'd finished my sketch.

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Then he got up with a sigh of relief.

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Hot! Hot, ain't it?

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I was seated in such a position that I was unable to see his work.

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And for some reason, I didn't move.

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Suddenly, he began to read what he'd carved on the tombstone.

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He spoke deliberately and with a flat voice.

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In the midst of life, we are in death.

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Born January 18, 1905.

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I looked up at the start.

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This man had read my exact birthday.

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He passed away very suddenly on August 20, 1945.

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That's today.

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We usually use the present date on these exhibition staves.

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Do you...

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Do you usually put a name on them too?

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Yes, yes.

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Sacred to the memory of James Clarence Wythencroft.

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Cold shudders swept over me, and I sat there in silence.

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The sound of birds and crickets seemed loud in my ears as we stood there,

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looking at each other, saying nothing.

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Then he mopped his brow again.

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Hot! Hot!

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I was finally able to speak.

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Where... where did you see that name?

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Oh, I didn't see it anywhere.

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I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head.

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It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.

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Huh? That's your name?

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You're James Clarence...

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Wythencroft. Yes.

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Well...

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Whew!

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And the dates?

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I can only answer for the birth date.

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It's correct.

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Oh! That's a rum, girl.

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I made a sketch this morning... of you.

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Of me? But you've never seen me before.

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No.

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Oh. Oh.

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I took my sketch from my pocket and I showed it to him.

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As he looked, the expression on his face altered,

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until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.

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And it was only the other day before

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that I told Moriah there were no such things as ghosts.

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Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.

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Then I spoke to him.

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You... you probably heard my name someplace.

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Yes. You must have seen me somewhere and forgotten it.

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Yes. Yes.

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Were you at Clacton on sea last July?

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No. No. I've never been to Clacton in my life.

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Oh.

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And we were silent for some time again.

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And we stood there looking at one another

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and at the two dates on the gravestone.

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And the birth, one was right,

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and the other was today.

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Well, come inside and have some supper.

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His wife was a strange little woman

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who was pallid with the look of those who lived their lives indoors.

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Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist,

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and he informed her that I was staying to supper.

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I spoke, making some comment that I hoped I wouldn't be an intrusion,

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and she looked up at me and she said,

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You have a pleasing voice, Mr. Withencroft,

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and you're welcome in my home.

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I'm sorry Charles has not brought you here before.

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Very little was said during the meal,

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and after the sardines and watercress had been removed,

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she walked over to her cupboard,

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and she took down a thin black book,

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and as she handed it to me, she spoke.

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Would you read aloud, Mr. Withencroft?

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Puzzled, I looked down at the book which she'd opened and placed before me.

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It was a very tiny book, The Prophet, it was called,

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by an author run known to me with a strange Eastern name,

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Carlyle Gibran,

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and my eyes fell across the page,

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and suddenly I was reading aloud as she'd asked me to.

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Then Nalmitra spoke, saying, We would ask now of death,

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and he said, You would know the secret of death,

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but how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

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The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day

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cannot unveil the mystery of light.

20:56.240 --> 20:59.240
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death,

20:59.240 --> 21:03.240
open your heart wide unto the body of life,

21:03.240 --> 21:09.240
for life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

21:09.240 --> 21:12.240
In the depth of your hopes and desires

21:12.240 --> 21:17.240
lies your silent knowledge of the beyond.

21:17.240 --> 21:20.240
Unlike seeds dreaming beneath the snow,

21:20.240 --> 21:23.240
your heart dreams of spring.

21:23.240 --> 21:28.240
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

21:28.240 --> 21:32.240
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd,

21:32.240 --> 21:38.240
when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor.

21:38.240 --> 21:42.240
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling,

21:42.240 --> 21:45.240
that he shall wear the mark of the king?

21:45.240 --> 21:50.240
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling.

21:50.240 --> 21:56.240
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

21:56.240 --> 22:01.240
And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides,

22:01.240 --> 22:06.240
that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

22:06.240 --> 22:12.240
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

22:12.240 --> 22:17.240
And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb.

22:17.240 --> 22:39.240
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

22:39.240 --> 22:42.240
When I looked up, Mr. Atkinson had gone,

22:42.240 --> 22:45.240
but his wife stood before me, and as she took the book, she spoke.

22:45.240 --> 22:47.240
Thank you.

22:47.240 --> 22:54.240
Then I went outside, and I found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone and smoking.

22:54.240 --> 22:56.240
He looked up at me.

22:56.240 --> 23:02.240
Hot, hot.

23:02.240 --> 23:10.240
Man's not responsible for what he might do in this heat.

23:10.240 --> 23:14.240
She never'd asked anyone to read aloud before.

23:14.240 --> 23:16.240
And then we talked about the sketch again.

23:16.240 --> 23:18.240
He looked at it.

23:18.240 --> 23:21.240
Likeness is me, all right.

23:21.240 --> 23:23.240
On trial.

23:23.240 --> 23:29.240
You must excuse my asking, but do you know anything you've done

23:29.240 --> 23:31.240
for which you could be put on trial?

23:31.240 --> 23:36.240
No, I've done nothing. Not yet.

23:36.240 --> 23:42.240
He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and he began to water the flowers.

23:42.240 --> 23:44.240
Twice a day, regular, in the hot weather.

23:44.240 --> 23:48.240
And then he'd sometimes get the better of the delicate ones, and ferns.

23:48.240 --> 23:51.240
Good Lord, they could never stand it.

23:51.240 --> 23:52.240
Where do you live?

23:52.240 --> 23:54.240
I told him my address.

23:54.240 --> 23:57.240
It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home.

23:57.240 --> 24:01.240
And he stopped watering, and he faced me squarely.

24:01.240 --> 24:03.240
It's like this.

24:03.240 --> 24:05.240
We look at the matter straight.

24:05.240 --> 24:08.240
If you both go back home tonight, you'd take your chance of accidents.

24:08.240 --> 24:10.240
A carp may turn over you.

24:10.240 --> 24:13.240
It's always banana skins and orange peels.

24:13.240 --> 24:16.240
They say nothing of falling ladders.

24:16.240 --> 24:19.240
He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness

24:19.240 --> 24:23.240
that would have been laughable six hours before.

24:23.240 --> 24:25.240
But I did not laugh.

24:25.240 --> 24:29.240
The best thing we can do is for you to stay here till 12 o'clock.

24:29.240 --> 24:32.240
Then it'll be tomorrow, do you see?

24:32.240 --> 24:33.240
Yes.

24:33.240 --> 24:37.240
We'll go upstairs and smoke.

24:37.240 --> 24:40.240
It may be cooler inside.

24:40.240 --> 24:43.240
And to my surprise, I agreed.

24:53.240 --> 24:58.240
We are sitting in a long, low room beneath the eaves.

24:58.240 --> 25:03.240
Atkinson has sent his wife to bed.

25:03.240 --> 25:08.240
He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone,

25:08.240 --> 25:12.240
smoking one of my cigars the while.

25:12.240 --> 25:15.240
And as I look at my sketch before me,

25:15.240 --> 25:18.240
I suddenly see the fuzzy outline of what the man in the picture

25:18.240 --> 25:21.240
holds in his hands.

25:21.240 --> 25:24.240
But while I had not been able to sketch it before,

25:24.240 --> 25:27.240
I am able to do so now.

25:27.240 --> 25:32.240
It is a chisel.

25:32.240 --> 25:37.240
And it is stained with dark liquid.

25:41.240 --> 25:46.240
The sketch is completed now.

25:46.240 --> 25:50.240
The air seems charged with thunder.

25:50.240 --> 25:55.240
And I hear it in the distance.

25:55.240 --> 26:00.240
It is ominous, but it carries the hope of rain.

26:00.240 --> 26:05.240
Perhaps this damnable heat will be broken soon,

26:05.240 --> 26:08.240
and the day will soon be over.

26:08.240 --> 26:13.240
It is close to twelve.

26:13.240 --> 26:20.240
I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window.

26:20.240 --> 26:22.240
The leg is cracked.

26:22.240 --> 26:28.240
And Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools,

26:28.240 --> 26:33.240
is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge

26:33.240 --> 26:37.240
on his chisel.

26:37.240 --> 26:39.240
There.

26:39.240 --> 26:41.240
It is twelve.

26:41.240 --> 26:44.240
The day is over.

26:44.240 --> 26:49.240
And I shall be going home.

26:49.240 --> 27:01.240
But the heat, the heat is tifling.

27:01.240 --> 27:23.240
This heat is enough to send a man mad.

27:31.240 --> 27:36.240
And so closes August Heat, in which Roma wines have brought you

27:36.240 --> 27:40.240
Ronald Coleman as star of tonight's study in Suspense.

27:40.240 --> 27:44.240
Suspense is produced, edited, and directed by William Spear.

27:44.240 --> 27:47.240
Music for August Heat was composed by Lucian Morrowick

27:47.240 --> 27:49.240
and conducted by Lutte Gluskin.

27:49.240 --> 27:51.240
Dennis Hoy appeared as Atkinson.

27:51.240 --> 27:54.240
This is Truman Bradley with a word for Roma Wines,

27:54.240 --> 27:56.240
the sponsor of Suspense.

27:56.240 --> 27:35.880
American music is a

27:35.880 --> 27:39.880
And so closes August Heat, in which Roma wines have brought you

27:39.880 --> 27:43.880
Ronald Coleman as star of tonight's study in Suspense.

27:43.880 --> 27:47.880
Suspense is produced, edited, and directed by William Spear.

27:47.880 --> 27:50.880
Music for August Heat was composed by Lucian Morrowick

27:50.880 --> 27:52.880
and conducted by Lutte Gluskin.

27:52.880 --> 27:54.880
Dennis Hoy appeared as Atkinson.

27:54.880 --> 27:57.880
This is Truman Bradley with a word for Roma Wines,

27:57.880 --> 27:59.880
the sponsor of Suspense.

27:59.880 --> 28:03.880
America's famed authority on hospitality, Elson Maxwell,

28:03.880 --> 28:06.880
recently made this suggestion for gracious entertainment.

28:06.880 --> 28:09.880
Your friends will respect your good taste

28:09.880 --> 28:12.880
when you serve delightful Roma California Toque,

28:12.880 --> 28:14.880
enjoyable at any time,

28:14.880 --> 28:17.880
with coffee or dessert, with nuts and fruit.

28:17.880 --> 28:20.880
I suggest serving Roma Toque cool.

28:20.880 --> 28:23.880
A most timely suggestion for Miss Maxwell.

28:23.880 --> 28:26.880
You'll find flame-bright Roma Toque velvety smooth,

28:26.880 --> 28:30.880
moderately sweet, light, yet delightfully rich in color,

28:30.880 --> 28:33.880
and you'll find Roma wines always delicious

28:33.880 --> 28:36.880
of unvarying fine quality and goodness.

28:36.880 --> 28:38.880
June is the month of weddings,

28:38.880 --> 28:41.880
and the most distinguished way to pay the June bride

28:41.880 --> 28:44.880
is by serving Roma California Champagne.

28:44.880 --> 28:48.880
Its gold and sparkle and delicious delightful dryness

28:48.880 --> 28:53.880
tell you that here is a truly fine champagne, Roma Champagne.

28:53.880 --> 28:56.880
Next time you plan for a special occasion,

28:56.880 --> 28:58.880
add this sparkling touch of perfection,

28:58.880 --> 29:00.880
good Roma Champagne.

29:00.880 --> 29:04.880
Next Thursday you will hear John Payne and Frank McHugh

29:04.880 --> 29:07.880
as stars of Suspense.

29:07.880 --> 29:12.880
presented by Roma Wines, R-O-M-A,

29:12.880 --> 29:16.880
made in California for enjoyment throughout the world.

29:16.880 --> 29:28.880
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.

