Growing old did not torment Hetheridge; it was simply part of the graceful arc of his existence. His twenties had been the time for exploration and a thirst for learning; his thirties, for honing his strengths and accepting his weaknesses; his forties, for the cool, self-centered joy only true professional mastery could bring. His sixties would be the natural time of decline—withdrawal into memories, the descending curtain, the snuffed lights. One night, over a gin and tonic, it occurred to him there were dozens of ways to bring down the curtain himself, on his own terms. It was only fleeting,
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