“Come with me,” she said after a minute or two. She stood and led me down the hallway and into her bedroom. Her gait was too brisk to be seductive; she had some business to attend to. I had been in her bedroom many times before, had felt the thrill of seeing her white bedclothes and rows of empty shoes, but never with this acute a sense of being suffered, like a smelly old dog on a miserable night, just this once being allowed to sleep indoors, on the still warm hearth – of being such a lucky dog.

– From “Millionaires,” by Michael Chabon

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