The sun had emerged, quick and sharp. It seared into the wall, on one small patch, lifting layer after layer of surface tints, from cream to burnt brown; so mottled, hacked, knocked, replaced, corroded that the effect was of a decrepit fresco. It would be a bit of a shame to paint over it now, I was thinking; it was part of the fabric of the building's history, like the various places in the house where the ghostly outlines remained of old doors now bricked up and plastered over. They were a fine counterpoint to the doors we found opened into new rooms that hadn't seemed to exist.
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