” Ennison’s voice shook a little. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. He knew. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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