“So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. “There is one thing I must concentrate on at the moment,” she told herself, “and that is how to pay my next week’s bill to Mrs. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. . But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. They are more base then the animals and cannot be suffered to live, do you understand?” She nodded.
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