“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. Teddy overtook her, a little out of breath, his innocent face flushed, his straw-colored hair disordered. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. “Now you must go,” she said firmly. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.
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