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. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. She would take this one back with her. It was a sickening process, and the sucking sound was sure to wake up Ray’s mother. It had ever been her policy, much to Melusine’s relief, for she was apt to complain that it only made her mad and there was nothing she could do about it.
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