When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. “I want to find an address. Ramage did not know. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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