He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos. Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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