Well, here we are at the hospital, shall we go in out of the rain?
It was almost fishing in the rain, when fish really bite. A fishing funeral: is that on tomorrow's agenda? Yes, tomorrow she is to be buried ... Yes, a cup of coffee, Claude ... Yes, miserable weather. Yes, Jean's returned: she's on duty.
Orville and Victor sat in the living room: Orville's fishing rods were leaning against a wall.
"So, you went fishing in the rain?"
"No, Uncle Victor ... it wasn't raining..."
"Any luck? ... I used to have good luck."
"I caught one."
"Ah!"
Flipping open a cigar box, Victor offered cigars.
During seven years the man had become another man: his silky white hair was brushed over a bald spot; his moustache had become a gentle weed; there was no color in his cheeks; his chin was porcelain white: what had happened to his eyes? And his voice? Words came painfully.