In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. “Forgive me,” he said.
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