She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. "Leave us, Mrs. “I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. The period of repression was over. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually.
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