She had seen for herself right up in the bedroom window with her binoculars when Joanie was gone shopping one night, right with her own eyes. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. ” She went as far as her door, then turned to the window. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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