The more organic air, weighted with nightfall, struck him
like a smothering pillow. There was a smell of dusty, sun-warm
gravel, of oil and hot metal. He was hungry and lingered near
the diner, pacing in slow strides with his hands in his pockets,
breathing the air deeply, though he disliked it. A constellation of
red and green and white lights hummed southward in the sky.
Strangers on a Train
Patricia Highsmith
1950
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