The land was then naturally broken up into small portions, which the proprietor cultivated for himself.

And again that big, bushy thing of hers worked its bloom and magic. It began to have an independent existence for me too. There was Germaine and there was that rose bush of hers.. I liked them separately and I liked them together.

They exchanged glances that meant absolutely nothing.

Still, I am angry with him. I am very angry with him. With my poor dead defenseless husband, I am furious as I was rarely—perhaps never—furious with him, in life. How can I forgive you, you’ve ruined both our lives.

Written By Joyce Carol Oates

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