I must bless him before I die. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. They almost made me feel like they were mine. ‘Looks like it. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander.
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