Mrs. Corcoran was looking at me as if I’d uttered some Nazi oath. “Dressing?” she said. “I think so.” “Isn’t he even dressed by now? What’s everybody been doing all morning?” I didn’t know what to say. She was drifting down the stairs a step at a time, and now that her head was free of the balustrade, she had an unimpeded view of the patio doors—rain-splashed glass, oblivious smokers beyond—if she chose to look that way. We were all transfixed with suspense. Sometimes mothers didn’t know what pot was when they saw it, but Mrs. Corcoran looked like she would know, all right. She snapped the
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