Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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