"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. “Awfully good of you, Teddy. I must provide for my safety. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. It isn’t illusions—for us. The McCloskeys had picked Lucy from a bunch of children languishing at the Illinois Christian Home for Children. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself.
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