Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Mischief bubbled up in her. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Someone, it appeared, was trying to profit from that fact. ” A flush of excitement crept into her cheeks. Do you know anything of his friends? Is there any one for whom we ought to send?” “I know very little of him beyond his name,” Anna answered.
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