We came across a large manor site. Its outbuildings were anchored on a undulating sea of wheat, and the white wallboards were melting into the pale late afternoon sunlight. The three of us, even Carlton, were silent. There’s something familiar about this place. Herds of cows graze, the autumn trees cast long shadows. I told myself we were farmers, and somehow still rich enough to drive a convertible. There is no shortage of such abilities in this world. When I travel in a car at night, I believe that the moon is also following me.
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