"It had been a lonely time at Harvard before that, and well into his second year of graduate school he was resigned to more of the same. He didn't want what the others wanted. He didn't want Radcliffe or Vassar or Wellesley in bed with him. He had known too many of those girls during his undergraduate days, and for Michael there was always something missing. He wanted something more. Texture, substance, soul. He had solved the problem for himself very nicely the summer before, with an affair with one of his mother's friends. Not that his mother had known. But it had been fun. She was a damned attractive woman in her late thirties, years younger than his mother, of course, and she was an editor at Vogue. But that had been merely sport. For both of them. Nancy was different.
He had known from the first moment he had seen her in the Boston gallery that showed her paintings. There was a haunting loneliness about her country-sides, a solitary tenderness about her people that filled him with compassion and made him want to reach out to them and to the artist who painted them. She had[…]"
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