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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"The Hidden Places"

Who was he
to escape?
No, Hollister reflected, he could not insulate himself and Doris
against this environment, against these people. They would have to
take things as they came and be thankful they were no worse.
Doris left the piano. She sat on a low stool beside him, leaned her
brown head against him.
"It won't be so long before I have to go to town, Bob," she said
dreamily. "I hope the winter is open so that the work goes on well.
And sometimes I hope that the snow shuts everything down, so that
you'll be there with me. I'm not very consistent, am I?"
"You suit me," he murmured. "And I'll be there whether the work goes
on or not."
"What an element of the unexpected, the unforeseen, is at work all the
time," she said. "A year ago you and I didn't even know of each
other's existence. I used to sit and wonder what would become of me.
It was horrible sometimes to go about in the dark, existing like a
plant in a cellar, longing for all that a woman longs for if she is a
woman and knows herself. And you were in pretty much the same boat.


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