He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. She rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. White assented. ‘I have only borrowed it. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
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