
Tessa Hadley Reads Nadine Gordimer
The New Yorker: Fiction
You're a Good Girl
He was a foreigner in the country five years but he didn't yet understand that where she lived people didn't have telephones in their houses. She sewed swiftly in and out through the four holes of the button with firm fluent movements of the right hand. Her gestures supplying an articulacy missing from her talk. He worked at his papers writing, writing every night so it did not matter that they could not go out together to public places. They picnicked away in the Magalesburg mountains on Sunday afternoons while he read or poked about among the rocks. After a week there was one day when late afternoon became evening and there was still in the bed. Can't you
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