My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. “Before I took up the Suffrage,” a firm, flat voice remarked, “I could scarcely walk up-stairs without palpitations. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. Norris, wringing her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed upon a couch. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully.
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