style="font-size:15px;"> What was it about him? Was it that he hadn’t touched me? That he’d slept, fully clothed, beside me, quite indifferent to the charms that so many men would have found irresistible—if sales of those stupid picture postcards were to be believed. But I doubted it was more than the novelty value. Sisters. Poppy and Daisy. The contrast of my dark hair and her blond. That, and the fact that Poppy really was a beauty.
There was a tin of tooth powder on the shelf above the sink. I took some, using my finger as a brush. Today was the first day of my thirtieth year. I’d been a widow for nearly six, which was three times longer than I’d been a wife. Anthony was dead. So many of them were dead. And I might as well be. If I could only prove that I wasn’t.
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