On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. Her foster parents had attended the concert in their finest clothes, Cathy in a new JC Penney dress, Larry in a suit that was too small. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. We are doing a unit on World War II in American History right now, so maybe I am getting a little wrapped up in the unit or something, I dunno. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. She really must not go to that affair. “You stupid bitch. “I did not recognize him,” Anna answered.
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