Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two
“I said I would,” I told her.
“I was afraid Dad would have the front gate guards turn your car around,” she said.
“He tried,” I said.
Clare pulled back slightly, her hands resting on my forearms.
Her eyes were bright, her breathing quick against the stiff silk of her bodice.
“He thinks putting you at table twenty-two makes you look like a charity case,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
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