That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. "Get up, then," said Jack, freeing his foot from the stirrup. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Let’s go up to my room. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion.
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