“Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. “My husband and all his friends are fools, and the life they lead is impossible for me. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. M.
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