The Performance Never Ends
ACT IThe cabin had no neighbours for three miles. Frank O'Brien had chosen it for that reason: no one to perform for, no one to read, no one to impress or deceive or manipulate. He had driven up from New Hampshire's western border in a Ford sedan that smelled of old tobacco and wet wool, carrying two suitcases and a lifetime of habits he did not know how to unpack.It had been ninety-two days...
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