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crammed full of delicate furniture, some of which looked as though it came from Abby's time. On a settee with intricately carved legs sat a tiny woman. A cloud of silver hair framed her face. Her skin had the parched, powdered look of a woman far past her prime, yet, though there were creases in her brow and beside her mouth, her flesh barely sagged. She had a sweetly upturned noseand Abby stood in the doorway staring, tears filling her eyes. In her blue flowered dress, Mike's petite great-aunt Jess looked much as Abby would have imagined Lucy to have looked half a century after Abby had last seen her. |
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"Come in," Jess demanded, her voice strong, if high-pitched. She looked Abby over with myopic, waiflike brown eyes, then patted the brocade upholstery of the settee beside her. "Dixie, dear, you sit here." |
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Abby looked quickly at Mike as she took the seat Jess designated, smelling the scent of roses and something harshly medicinal emanating from the elderly woman. |
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Mike's face was stony as he began to speak, but Grace interrupted. "Now, Jess, you know Mike lost poor Dixie five months back. This is his friend Abby." |
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"Dixie was my wife," he explained to Abby in an expressionless undertone. "She's . . . deceased." Grace and he took seats opposite the settee. |
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Did he not recall the scene in his office with his brother-in-law? Abby had been there. She |
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