The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. “Show me around you house, John. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her.
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