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She had ironed her blouse. It was a pale blue cotton blouse that she had bought two years before she was pregnant, and it no longer buttoned across the middle, so she wore it open over a white camisole, but it was pressed and clean and she stood as straight as her body would allow when she pushed through the courtroom door. Harrison was already there.
She recognized the suit first, which told her something about the nature of their marriage. The charcoal wool fit him the way expensive things always fit him, as though it had been made for the occasion rather than the body, and he sat at his table with the casual authority of a man who had never once doubted that rooms were arranged for his comfort. He was looking at his phone when she entered.
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