she had been – and still was – a beautiful woman. The first lines were making themselves known at the edges of her eyes and the café au lait skin around her chin and down the sides of her elegant neck was beginning to soften. But if she had lost the perfection of youth, she had gained the carelessness and confidence of later age. She was an independent, a woman who had no interest in what the world thought of her. Here I am, she seemed to be saying. Whether you want me or not makes no difference to me. I am the one who will decide.
