She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. But I can tell you who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!" As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish features, and a long red beard. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. “But what can one do?” asked Ann Veronica.
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