One day during an autowriters’ junket in Europe, we checked into our small country hotel with a good hour to spare before supper, so I went for a ramble. Drawn by the pock … pock … of shotgun fire, I came to a field where several people were taking turns at clay pigeons with an over-under.
All were men but for a lone woman. Her turn came and she smoothly shouldered the elegant weapon, called for release, and powdered her first clay. There was a general murmur of approval.
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