McClintock never threw away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courted pamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and great mail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturers of hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. You know—I worship you. “Mr. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. “So far you’ve got me and I you. The way—the way we are led on! We are taught to believe we are free in the world, to think we are queens.
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