And I won’t admit this one, she thought with determination as she stared up at the ceiling that glimmered overhead. Her husband of ten days slumbered beside her. Sleeping the sleep of the wise was what some might have called it. Others, more honest, might have called it the sleep of the monumentally’ stupid. He was William Pillsbury of the Westchester Pillsbury’s only son and heir of Harold M. Pillsbury, old and comfortable money. Publishing was what they liked to talk about, because publishing was a gentleman’s profession, but there was also a chain of New England textile a foundry in Ohio, and extensive agricultural holdings in the south — cotton and citrus and fruit. Old money was always better than noveau riche, but either way they had money falling out of their assholes. If she ever said that aloud to Bill, he would undoubtedly go pale and might even faint dead away. No fear, Bill. Profanation of the Pillsbury family shall never cross my lips. It had been her idea to honeymoon at the Overlook in Colorado, and there had been two reasons for this.
What do You think about A Bedroom In The Wee Hours Of T?
