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When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. She had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. "We mustn't disturb the patient. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. There is no future for me here. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. She peered into the darkness. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. .
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