In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She had called the police on them anonymously. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice.
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