His eyes never left her face. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living. They are not your flowers. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. ‘I do not understand you. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor.
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