Practice Typing

I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so that probably I dozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot smudged shirt sleeves, and with his upturned, clean shaven face staring at a faint flickering that danced over the sky. The sky was what is called a mackerel sky rows and rows of faint down plumes of cloud, just tinted with the midsummer sunset.