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An illicit stopover at to the Grand Canyon finds a vastness much more profound; an exacting profession girl celebrates Christmas together with her adamantly post-nuclear kin; a pair weekending in Maine attempt to recapture the passion that has disappeared, either steadily and without warning, from their lives; on a spring evening's force, a tender spouse confesses to her husband the affair she had with the host of the banquet they're approximately to join.
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My words might have stunned her. It might have been she was glad inside that I’d come back. She raised her stick as if to hit me, but instead, took a hold of my hair and waved a bandaged finger in front of my nose. “Look what you’ve done, look wha . ” Mom groaned heavily and began to cry before she finished the sentence. I pushed my head into her apron. “Mommie, Mommie,” I pleaded. “For Christ’s sake I’d rather have you beat me up than hear you cry. Mommie, I’m sorry I wore you out; please beat me up an’ you’ll feel better.
Of course, it was all true, but it’s neither here nor there. So, go on wherever you want,—you with • your brand of truth, and we’ll stay here with ours. It isn’t healthy for you to stay. W e here stick to each other like flies to flypaper—be glad you can still fly away. Scat! Take the coppers and goodbye, pal. W e ain’t guilty to you nor are you to us. It just cannot turn out well. ” I pored over their faces; they were nodding in agreement with Matvey. “So long, pals,” I tossed my bundle over my shoulder.
Go on, but blow on the spoon. ” Two minutes later I was sitting again in the shade of his mud hut. I was dirty, exhausted, and very hungry. My heart ached, yet I ate, and ate. The chowder with sturgeon and flounder tasted good. The Two Kinds of Truth by Pyotr Zamoyski Pyotr Ivanovitch Zamoyski, 1896-1958, ¿on/ Z evalkin, of a poor peasant famjly. Self-taught, he did all kinds of work, wrote mostly about village life. ider the in fluence of Gorki wrote a biographical trilogy, Stripling, Youth, Sunrise.