When
she, no longer exactly a wife, but now soon to be an ex-wife, passed through
the unoiled garden gate each morning, that insensitive gate had the effrontery
to squeal and squeak in the same old familiar way, as if her life had not been
wrenched inside out.
Ian
McEwan, Solar
[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]
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