"No; I don't think I'd laugh. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. Giving him a wide berth, and keeping her pistol high, she made her way to the door and warily peered through it. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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