Rachel sat ram-rod straight in the wooden chair, elbows on the chair arms, knees angled discreetly to the left with a tidy tuck of the ankles. A childhood habit that was hard to break, even through nine month pregnancies and a month of post-partum. A half-eaten piece of toast, a remnant of her magically vanishing maternal appetite, lay on her plate as she glanced dismissively at the society section of the Prophet, the international section conveniently jutting out beneath it catching her attention much more. She was just reading "Parkinson's residence on Tuesday night/when conflict in the Balkans had broken" as she heard the polite but unmistakable murmur from across the table. Rachel believed she distinctly felt her right eye twitch. But it was of no consequence.
She winged a brow delicately in Gabriel's direction.
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