For Six Sentence Sunday, here's the very rough opening paragraph, as written about five minutes ago:
Thirty degrees in the shade felt hotter than it sounded. Johanna took the pith helmet off and wiped her forehead with a handkerchief that was already damp with sweat. She would not complain – she'd fought so hard to accompany the great Professor Flinders-Petrie, faced so many disparinging voices about her gender, her lack of expertise. Only Sir William had valued her enthusiasm and linguistic ability. So no complaints: she would not be the little woman, the fragile flower that wilted in the heat.
Even if the heat was so very draining.
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