They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled. 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. Hours were spent in preparation for the event. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits.
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