But it was of no avail. ‘Help yourself, Hilary. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age.
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