The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Jhumpa Lahiri Reads William Trevor

The New Yorker: Fiction

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The Marriage of Elspeth and Mrs. Leathwes

Mrs. Leathwes was pretty then and is handsome now, still loose-limbed. The remark had caused a silence, then someone laughed. It's most unlikely that anyone much knows about his other woman. He wouldn't want wife humiliated. That was never his style. On later September holidays, there had been no letters. Some alarm had been raised by the one that didn't find its intended destination. Dreadful, he would have considered it. A liaison discovered by chance, and would have felt afraid. Elspeth would naturally have honored his wishes, even though writing to him when he was away was precious. No more, that's all.

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