She lied. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of your life. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him.
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