
Douglas Stuart Reads “The Englishman”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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Yourang, My Lord, I Tried to Be the Clown
We ate a dinner of dover saux that he fried in the pan. We went to bed early, each of us retreating to his separate floor. I was lying in the guest room when i heard him call for me. His master bedroom was at the top of the house. He had knocked many small rooms into one to create an airy space. There were large skylights set into the slanted roof. William was dwarfed by a carved oak bed. The bedside lamp cast a focused beam for reading. It's obvious that you don't like me a do he cleared his throat and began again.
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