Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. 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. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened.
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