I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt. "'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie.
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