Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. She recognized the face but could not quite place it. Both had lived rather quietly until a scandal had opened up a can of worms for the son, allegations of child abduction, reported sightings of a white van around nearby elementary schools. John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. One must be on guard. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. None at all. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. Sheppard. This incredible scene robbed him of the sense of locomotion. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity.
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