Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. “Why not?” He asked. “He’s got good taste, you know.
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