When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. He worried me to marry him. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. I give myself to you. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above.
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