He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. I’ll take over here. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. The next moment he was by her side. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser.
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