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It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. “Call me Annabel. Come back—you must come back. His face was very serious. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. And the situation it makes!—the situation!” Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal. But I will never—never return. He drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull. She painted on the Root Beer Lip Smackers lip gloss that Shari had bought her last Christmas and rouged her cheeks as she had long ago as she once had for Sebastian. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
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