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. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. Cathy had not even noticed that she herself was wet and trailing water everywhere. He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. gutenberg.
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