She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Martha had not been pleased to find her spare one borrowed for that expedition when the major had found her outside the ballroom. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. I know the Dutch. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position.
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