Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. ‘It was a good chance for a new life,’ Joan explained, venturing to face Melusine again, ‘and Martha took it. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired.
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