She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand.
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