The rich are obscure to us, finding ways to be unhappy when all the normal causes of unhappiness are removed.

Not all of it was done by soldiers, or by men. She’d shut her eyes and run her fingers over Jack’s shoulders, down his spine, as a blind person might seek to recognise the shape of something. The shape—the ache in her own flesh—of her love for him.

Ah, shit,” he said, “you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else’s.” He

Let&#39;s not pretend that all of a sudden, this is some new system.

Written By Mark Shields

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