“The room was dark; the shades were drawn. The bedroom faced the front of the house, and the sidewalk. Even during the day, it was necessary to draw the shades. Naked beneath a sheet and a light cotton blanket, she slowly extended her legs full length, thighs and feet close together. Her legs ached—a dull, leaden ache that came, she knew, from the mind, not the body. Whenever she was depressed, she ached. She was lying with arms straight at her sides—at attention. If she crossed her arms across ...her breasts, she would be lying in state. Rest in peace, Joanna Rossiter, née Joanna Harrington. When she was younger, she’d never really liked her name. She hadn’t liked Joanna, because it seemed so awkward, somehow. She hadn’t liked Harrington, because it sounded so Irish. So déclassé. At the thought, she smiled wearily. She’d been twenty-one, at least, before she could even pronounce “déclassé,” much less use the word in a sentence. Had Kevin taught her to use the word? She couldn’t remember.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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