Wood heard the cry. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. "Mr. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent.
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