I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. “How are those books any different from the witchcraft books?” “I dunno. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. "Ha! say you so? You must be looked to.
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