Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. “I don’t think you can have heard me, Vee,” he said, with intensely controlled fury. “I’ll get a towel. She made a step forward. All the rest—Movements! I can live now on fourpence a day. That I should be challenged by you of all people. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.
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