She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She floundered deep. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout.
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