A Celibate Season. Carol Shields

profoundly sad for some reason. And on Saturday night, when I was feeling my worst, he sat in the corner of our bedroom and read the newspaper aloud to me. You would have been surprised to hear him read—elegantly, without a pause, like silk off a spool. Clunky old Gil. He read it all, sports, editorials, even the letters to the editor. (I’m enclosing one of those letters, which I think will give you the flavour of our little backyard war.)