“Gumbrel was sitting at his desk in the back of the newspaper office. “I just wanted to run this by you. I called a couple of times, but you weren’t here.” No, I hadn’t. As if the only thing holding up the installment of the story was his not answering the phone. “I need to know what you think of this story line.” “Shoot.” When I looked at the little I’d written, I felt disloyal. “I’m all ears; go ahead.” As if to prove his point, he cupped his hand behind his ear. I cleared my throat and went a...head: “ ‘The story of the Devereaus doesn’t end here: it doesn’t even begin here.’ ” Mr. Gumbrel brought his fist down into his hand. “Now that’s good!” He paused. “Sounds a little familiar. But go on.” I continued with my diagnosis of the Devereaus, not contributing much beyond their “empty lives,” which I repeated in three different ways, at least. Mr. Gumbrel nodded seriously. “You’re right there. Isabel Devereau—hell, probably none of them had inner resources.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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