” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. Nasty, damp passages. "Take off the ruffles, Blueskin," rejoined Wild. “Did your foster dads ever try to molest you?” “Of course they did, John. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. ‘Oh, have you? Well, in that case, I love your little booted feet, and your ridiculously long eyelashes, and—’ THANK YOU! Thank you so much for downloading and reading my book. Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. “Just think about what you are asking, John, please.
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