Excerpt from Divided Lives: A Novel The world, for at least one man who lived in it, was hung with black. This man's name was Hubert Throckmorton. He had taken the cars (a journey of about an hour or so) from New York to Ponchatuk. In this part of Long Island lay an estate of his, left him some years ago by his late father. The season was early June, and Locustwood (the name of Hubert's domain) was full of that peace, dream, and tender surprise which marks our belated American spring. There had been times, with Hubert, when he had told himself that he detested Ponchatuk. Its name had always seemed to him the most aggressive array of bristling consonants. Then, too, the "South Side," as it is elliptically called, had been apt to bore him past words, except during the season of woodcock and quail. He hated fishing; it had, he thought, too much mean and sly craft in it to make a real sport of; and if you did not fish at Ponchatuk you hardly dwelt there. Take away its...

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