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"Lindsay," Hubs said in a rush over the phone the other night, "I just told the girl at Bellacino's that I loved her."
My knees buckled and I clutched the back of an armchair for support. This was totally unexpected. I had always thought I would just know if my husband was having an affair. I'd see the lipstick on his collar, or smell a whiff of unfamiliar perfume, or sense a certain distance that hadn't been there before. (No, I don't think about this kind of thing, ever. Clearly.) Bu

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