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. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. I have plenty in common with Mike. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. Her head swam. But you must get him into the chair as fast as you can, and hurry off to Newgate. Taber and no one comment upon it. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God.
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