In the darkness of his little house, Mole counts the roots that poke through his ceiling.
In the darkness, Mole thinks about the word ceiling, and the verb to ceil.
In the darkness of his tunnels, Mole opens new ways to the world.
In the darkness of his race, Mole opens his snout to new sensations.

Mole is a gentle soul, but cold, but cold. He draws a bead on the weasels with his gun and picks them off, one by one. Pow, pow, pow. Mole has lousy eyesight but steady hands. You can adjust for weak eyesight.

Mole is a sleeper agent. He spent twenty years in Morocco, fully integrated into society. He had a wife. He had children, a home, friends, a business. When the time came, he killed them all himself and returned to his bank by the river.

“Good work, Mole,” says Rat, judiciously. Faint praise, but Mole understands. You can adjust for everything but will.

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