Fiction | March 01, 1979
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The Three Virgins, they called us at Vassar. I don’t know, even now, if we were wise or foolish. But we’ve each seen something of life: one in New York, one in Chicago, and one in Beverly Hills. We meet up often enough, passing over this wide wilderness, to and from on the career trails, the marriage and separation trails, wandering from sacking and slaughter with our booty, from conquest and humiliations, wedding banquets and sanatoria, fatfarms, dude ranches and communes, islands en route, and adventures.
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