His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase.
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