The well of tears in her eyes was dry. Get it off your soul. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’ ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’ Her eyes flashed.
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