Chicagoland

Last week for no apparent reason Lynette’s face in its every detail sprang into my mind: the violet-blue eyes that were always open a trifle too wide, giving them a glazed look; the square lipsticked smile; the red hair angling down her forehead; the faint freckling that flowed from her nose onto her cheeks. She wore a great deal of eye makeup and seemed rather brittle and false to me then, but when I meet such girls now I see them as terribly young, terribly anxious, terribly, terribly sweet.

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