希拉里自传12

<p style="color:#333333;font-weight:normal;font-size:16px;line-height:30px;font-family:Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;hyphens:auto;text-align:justify;" data-flag="normal">In&nbsp;between&nbsp;cramming&nbsp;for&nbsp;finals&nbsp;and&nbsp;finishing&nbsp;up&nbsp;my&nbsp;first&nbsp;year&nbsp;of&nbsp;concentration&nbsp;on&nbsp;children,&nbsp;we&nbsp;spent&nbsp;long&nbsp;hours&nbsp;driving&nbsp;around&nbsp;in&nbsp;his&nbsp;1970&nbsp;burnt-orange&nbsp;Opel&nbsp;station&nbsp;wagon―truly&nbsp;one&nbsp;of&nbsp;the&nbsp;ugliest&nbsp;cars&nbsp;ever&nbsp;manufactured―or&nbsp;hanging&nbsp;out&nbsp;at&nbsp;the&nbsp;beach&nbsp;house&nbsp;on&nbsp;Long&nbsp;Island&nbsp;Sound&nbsp;near&nbsp;Milford,&nbsp;Connecticut,&nbsp;where&nbsp;he&nbsp;lived&nbsp;with&nbsp;his&nbsp;roommates.&nbsp;At&nbsp;aparty&nbsp;there&nbsp;one&nbsp;night,&nbsp;Bill&nbsp;and&nbsp;I&nbsp;ended&nbsp;up&nbsp;in&nbsp;the&nbsp;kitchen&nbsp;talking&nbsp;about&nbsp;what&nbsp;each&nbsp;of&nbsp;us&nbsp;wanted&nbsp;to&nbsp;do&nbsp;after&nbsp;g...