She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened.
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