And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. John Sheppard. If he decided to watch television upstairs with his mother, she would probably retire before he did, but she was a light sleeper. After all, this could never be the black sheep. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. I will neither stir hand nor foot for you more.
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