The manuscript was sitting in its accustomed place on the leftside of the typewriter, the pages held down with a pretty chunk ofquartz I'd found on the lane, but nothing was happening. It was cold and the packingcases were uncomfortable to lie on but he was tired and his face felt windburned, and he soon fel asleep. Out here were no bare walls; out here the walls jostled with my wife'sspirit and creativity. His homely-handsome face split in a grin, and I felt a little stab ofguilt.
It's quite all right, I said. I decided it was a natural impulse butprobably a bad idea. It was just the sort of inj3rmation she picked up andtucked away. Rump-wrangler, Bill said.
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