Bonnie Burnard


John McLarty's furniture, in his office in the History building, his old teak desk and the two extra chairs and the filing cabinets and the potted plants, had been placed in every conceivable configuration, and he'd changed the drapes, at his own expense, twice. He believed there was a perfect arrangement, something conducive to dear thought, to an overall peace of mind, for himself and everyone who entered his office. He'd had some help, initially from his reluctant wife, and then from the others and recently even his daughter had gone up with him on a Sunday afternoon. They'd shared a bottle of wine as they hauled things around and argued amicably about what looked good where.



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