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— I swear, Emily, darling, that was the last time, — said Michael, as his wife greeted him after his fishing trip with a suspicious look. Stepping into their apartment on Maple Street and dropping his oversized fishing bags on the floor, he slumped onto a chair and let out a heavy sigh. — Probably caught nothing again, — Emily smirked unkindly. — That’s why you’re saying that. — No, that’s not why, — Michael insisted stubbornly. — I’m just fed up with it. — You’re lying again… — Honestly, Emily, you can’t imagine how depressing fishing is. You sit …