Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it. 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. In the first place, Mrs. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. “And yet I do it without compunction. "I'll tell you why," he said. “What was that?” she asked sharply.
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