‘It did not seem to me that it was so. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. She hated the manor. It was a habit of his to talk to himself.
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