‘One afternoon as she was typing, her hand began to shake. When she held up her other hand, it was shaking, too. She felt the way she had on the Greyhound bus that weekend Jace had told her about the blonde, when she kept thinking: This can’t be my life. And then she thought that most of her life she had been thinking: This can’t be my life.’

– Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge

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