Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Or else he was indeed obsessed. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. He pushed her back forcefully into her seat with his lips, his body automatically responding to her kiss.
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