She moaned as she touched him. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. She wanted to turn him. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.
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