It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. It is all very complex. . ’ He clenched his fists and grew red in the face. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her.
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