It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Cathy and Shari toiled over boiling pots of potatoes, candied sweet potatoes with orange rind, corn casserole, and almond green beans. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand.
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