Paul Cezanne Apples Peaches Pears and Grapes

Paul Cezanne Apples Peaches Pears and GrapesLaurie Maitland Symphony in Red and Khaki IIWilliam Bouguereau YouthBill Brauer Salsa Dancers
'You're late,' he whispered, and died.
Mort swallowed, fought for breath, and brought the scythe around in a slow arc. Nevertheless, it was accurate enough; the abbot sat up, leaving his corpse behind.
'Not a shut.
'That's what I've been trying to say,' he said.
'So if you could just drop me off down in the valley,' the little monk continued moment too soon,' he said, in a voice only Mort could hear. 'You had me worried for a moment there.''Okay?' said Mort. 'Only I've got to rush —'The abbot swung himself off the bed and walked towards Mort through the ranks of his bereaved followers.'Don't rush off,' he said. 'I always look forward to these talks. What's happened to the usual fellow?''Usual fellow?' said Mort, bewildered.Tall chap. Black cloak. Doesn't get enough to eat, by the look of him,' said the abbot.'Usual fellow? You mean Death?' said Mort.'That's him,' said the abbot, cheerfully. Mort's mouth hung open.'Die a lot, do you?' he managed.'A fair bit. A fair bit. Of course,' said the abbot, 'once you get the hang of it, it's only a matter of practice.''It is?''We must be off,' said the abbot. Mort's mouth snapped