\" Larry got up from his chair and trudged to the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of milk from the never-ending supply of two percent. ” He said, running his fingers lightly over one pink nipple. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. But a biddable girl. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits.
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