She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. ’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter.
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