Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. “Would you mind calling that hansom for me?” He looked at it critically and shook his head. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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