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 was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. It has all been a mistake. One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps.
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