My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. ” “That’s horrible!” He gasped. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street.
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