Her head ached with a hollow pain. She was too late. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. He stared at her breasts while he touched them.
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