Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. Don’t try. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. ” “I have been through dozens of foster parents, John. Thank goodness there’s plenty of opportunity! And we two can talk.
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