A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. 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. I could tell it was Italian, you see. The owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas. “My name is Anna Pellissier, sometimes called Annabel.
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