My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. “What have I been all this time?” she asked herself, and answered, “Just stark egotism, crude assertion of Ann Veronica, without a modest rag of religion or discipline or respect for authority to cover me!” It seemed to her as though she had at last found the touchstone of conduct. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. “I did not,” Anna answered.
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