I
sat on the bed abruptly. Where had that
come from? Was I petty enough to be
angry that my boyfriend had been thinking of a dozen different ways to be sure
his descendants (the unfriendly and sometimes snooty Bellefleurs) prospered,
while I, the love of his afterlife, worried herself to tears about her
finances?
You bet, I was petty enough.
I
should be ashamed of myself.
But later. My mind was not
through toting up grievances.
(from Club Dead by Charlaine Harris)
.
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