” She lied. The owner was at the door unhooking a few articles of wearing apparel which he had exposed outside for sale. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Anything that had love in it! The doctor comprehended that he also had his work cut out. She was no longer there. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. ‘Jacques?’ she called. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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