When Momo still said nothing, he stroked her hair soothingly and added, “Don’t take it so hard, Momo.”
“Everything’ll look quite different in the morning. We’ll just have to come up with a new idea - a new game, eh?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Momo said in a muffled voice. Guido stood up.
“Look, I know how you feel, but we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? I have to go now - I’m late enough as it is.”
“Anyway, it’s time you went to bed.” And he walked off whistling his melancholy tune.
So Momo remained sitting forlornly in the great stone bowl of the amphitheater.
Clouds had veiled the sky and blotted out the stars. A peculiar breeze had sprung up, light but persistent and singularly cold.
If breezes can be said to have a colour, this one was gray.
Far away beyond the outskirts of the city loomed the massive municipal garbage dump.
It was a veritable mountain of ash, cinders, broken glass and china, tin cans, plastic containers,
old mattresses, cardboard cartons and countless other objects discarded by the city’s inhabitants,
all waiting to be fed, bit by bit, into huge incinerators.
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