My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. Plainly. Winny, this is the last night I shall pass beneath your father's roof. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. "But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother.
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