That might happen on her birthday—in August. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. She had no place she loved. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. The work itself was refreshingly tonal, Sebastian observed. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs.
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