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8. " "Why, surely you don't think your guests would steal them," observed Rachel, archly. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Nuns, I mean. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal.
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