"Skinner didn't feel the biting wind as he stood at the graveside, staring down
at a sight more bleak than the climate - a hard, wooden coffin. Someone
was crying, he wasn't sure who, as he stood, his arms by his side,
gazing numbly at the casket. He didn't turn to look at the mourners
behind him. None of them had as great a right to be here as he did, he
was sure of that. He had taken his place at the head of the procession
with pride. They couldn't deny him that, the way he'd been denied so
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