Chilly evening.
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Scene: A country house, brick, ~17th c. A row of pear trees line the wicket fence and gate. It is evening.
A lone FIGURE approaches the gate, unlatches it, and enters the close. CLOSE IN on the scratch of the pebbles underfoot. Disregarding the old bell-pull, he pushes a lit button next to the door frame, and the doorway lights come on automatically with the chime, heard distantly in the house. The VISITOR waits a moment or two, and then ST. PETER arrives, incongruously dressed in full biblical fig of white flowing robes. He seems neither particularly interested in the event, nor flippant about it, as if watching a wager on the table that might yet go either way. Long stare, Pause.
ST. PETER: (Staring at the visitor's knapsack and broad-brimmed hat.) Yes. Well. We have no idea how you managed to pull that off. The Scotch is in the library. We'll talk in the morning.
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