Читать книгу Monica's Overcoat of Flesh - Geraldine Clarkson - Страница 9

The Ladies? I enquire gingerly, my first try, not remembering the more neutral word. But we are in the desert, a roadside café shack off the Panamericano. Out the back, someone motions. A wooden door whips open, caught by the wind, slams fast. Vast sands to left and right, nothing else—oh, but Mind the Dogs! someone calls.