Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. “Oh, dammit!” he remarked, “dammit!” with great bitterness as he faced it. .
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