Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the room. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. In the one he approached was gathered together a vast assortment of weapons, each of which, as appeared from the ticket attached to it, had been used as an instrument of destruction. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful.
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