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Michael rowed the boat ashore and moored it to a gnarled stake. He reached into the fold of his turtleneck sweater and pulled out. . .
Hugh found that his mother did not like his pictures. She scolded him for wasting paper and chewing pencils.
My radio was playing, and Angel was on my mind. Sammy Schultz and me were stacking hay down on the Harper place.
Instead of “Don’t Stop Believin’,” I got to play songs with a little more bite.
A rich man's hobby can have serious consequences for the rest of us.
This is what identity politics looks like when it has gone a little senile.