The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. 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. It isn't your duty. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. With all your cunning, we're more than a match for you. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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