’ Joan sniffed. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. “Are you looking for Mike? He’s working. Maybe it’s his loss. She stabbed him with her canines. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. What about them?” He called a hansom. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. They can’t help seeing things in the way they do. "I'm sorry," she said.
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