A moment past her prime, Marthe tilted her chin forward.
It was a trick taught by her mother that “elongates the neck and makes your decollate irresistible.” She hoped it was working because she felt a bit like a fool, or a giraffe, maybe a foolish giraffe.
Boning poked at the tender skin under her arms, and she wondered if the cleavage was too much. It was expected, the style for a woman her age, but every time she looked down, there it was, a mountainous spilling of porcelain.
Two men walked toward her, one as if surveying a buffet. She let out a breath, tried not to roll her eyes, and put on her demure smile, the one her mother said, “should be the smile of a woman willing to compromise, dear.”
The eager man took her hand in his sweaty palm and she rose, as was proper, for yet another twirl around…
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