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“Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath. "Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull," he told her. "It can be two bicycle policemen as easily, or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena." It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space. "Tell it to go away." It did not go away but moved a little closer. "You've got a hell of a breath," he told it. "You stinking bastard.” — Ernest Hemingway
Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath.
"Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull," he told her. "It can be two bicycle policemen as easily, or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena."
It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space.
"Tell it to go away."
It did not go away but moved a little closer.
"You've got a hell of a breath," he told it. "You stinking bastard.