希拉里自传14

<p style="color:#333333;font-weight:normal;font-size:16px;line-height:30px;font-family:Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;hyphens:auto;text-align:justify;">Soon&nbsp;after&nbsp;we&nbsp;returned&nbsp;from&nbsp;Europe,&nbsp;Bill&nbsp;offered&nbsp;to&nbsp;take&nbsp;me&nbsp;on&nbsp;another&nbsp;journey―this&nbsp;time&nbsp;to&nbsp;the&nbsp;place&nbsp;he&nbsp;called&nbsp;home.<br /><br />Bill&nbsp;picked&nbsp;me&nbsp;up&nbsp;at&nbsp;the&nbsp;airport&nbsp;in&nbsp;Little&nbsp;Rock&nbsp;on&nbsp;a&nbsp;bright&nbsp;summer&nbsp;morning&nbsp;in&nbsp;late&nbsp;June.&nbsp;We&nbsp;made&nbsp;our&nbsp;way&nbsp;through&nbsp;the&nbsp;Arkansas&nbsp;River&nbsp;Valley&nbsp;with&nbsp;its&nbsp;low-slung&nbsp;magnolia&nbsp;trees,&nbsp;and&nbsp;into&nbsp;the&nbsp;Ouachita&nbsp;Mountains,&nbsp;stopping&nbsp;at&nbsp;overlooks&nbsp;and&nbsp;dropping&nbsp;by&nbsp;country&nbsp;stores&nbsp;so&nbsp;Bill&nbsp;could&nbsp;introduce&nbsp;me&nbsp;to&nbsp;the&nbsp;people&nbsp;and&nbsp;places&nbsp;he&nbsp;loved.&nbsp;As&nbsp;dusk&nbs...