This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. ‘Come, cry a truce. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. My son went down after his death. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day.
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