Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. I don’t conceal it. Officers were these.
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