We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. I go back about once a year. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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