"Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point.
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