She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp.
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