“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. She tried to be casual. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. With Jack so badly injured, how would she get him home? How get herself home, now that Trodger had arrested her. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. .
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