She’s in a white collared shirt and black jumper, a rosary hanging from her belt and a cross around her neck—as far away from the red dress she wore last night as she could possibly be, yet it’s still the same Mary. The same mesmerizing mouth, with its full upper lip pouting over the smaller bow of the lower one. The same tiny stud glinting from the side of her nose, the same eyes with their copper haloes around the pupils. It’s her. It’s her, and immediately, I remember the feel of her in my arms, the tentative touch of her fingers on the nape of my neck, the silky give of that tempting mouth
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