Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

astragal

You or I. We do not.’ He was frozen now. His fingers had no feeling left in them, his feet were burning, each toe hammered in his shoes. The last cusp of the mountain peak had gone purple and the crests circling the valley were drenched in red. ‘There is a chapel at Santa Fosca, on the road to Astragal,’ his wife said. ‘It is a tiny, unadorned place. Let us go there and pray for this child.’

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