Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. What you say is probably all true and necessary. “Mere sensuality. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean.
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