then sat down to do what every galactic hitchhiker ends up spending most of his time doing. They waited for a flying saucer to come by.

Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf.

She had always been...the motive power of her own happiness.

She was one of those people who could not say if one note was lower or higher than another. This was no less a disability and misfortune than a clubfoot or a harelip...

Written By Ian McEwan

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