leothefox

[DEVIATION] XXXVII. The Date with the Ship, The Night “Theodore, I wish you had asked me this before. I would have told you to leave well enough alone.” “That is what mother said.” “Then why did you not listen?” “Because that man she lives with is no father to me. Because I wanted to know where I came from.” “You came from your mother. She was sent away, in a home for girls liker her, who were to have child but no husband.” “So I understand…” the frontiersman sighed. “I suppose this means that what they all say, what those boys in the street said was true, that I am no more than a bastard.” “Theodore, do not talk that way,” his grandfather chided him, “I’ll not have that kind of talk. You have a name, you have family, you are as well as any of us. Why should this change anything? It is unmanly to dwell on these dark thoughts, to resent such things. Men are not all born the same way, they are not all made to wear the same shoes, but they do not cry about it. Do you see me cry for all

[DEVIATION] XXXVII. The Date with the Ship, The Night “Theodore, I wish you had asked me this before. I would have told you to leave well enough alone.” “That is what mother said.” “Then why did you not listen?” “Because that man she lives with is no father to me. Because I wanted to know where I came from.” “You came from your mother. She was sent away, in a home for girls liker her, who were to have child but no husband.” “So I understand…” the frontiersman sighed. “I suppose this means that what they all say, what those boys in the street said was true, that I am no more than a bastard.” “Theodore, do not talk that way,” his grandfather chided him, “I’ll not have that kind of talk. You have a name, you have family, you are as well as any of us. Why should this change anything? It is unmanly to dwell on these dark thoughts, to resent such things. Men are not all born the same way, they are not all made to wear the same shoes, but they do not cry about it. Do you see me cry for all

FACE TO FACE Somewhere in the crowd was the killer. The detective’s eye rolled over them again and again as he moved slowly down the lighted train platform. Here were groups of kids, old people moving slowly along, tired shop owners returning home, and overdressed business men on their way out to bars. In short, a collection of ordinary people. Any one of them might have been the killer. Fass Enbrook had been on the trail of the man who had slaughtered his client, but the problem was he knew so little of the one who had done it. The only thing that was clear was that this person had gone through a whole series of crimes without being caught, and that this person was a master of disguise. More than once, Enbrook had nearly got him, for the killer could not help gloating. More than once he found someone dead or nearly so, and a member of the seemingly innocent and anonymous crowd had given him the sign before vanishing. This person, whoever he really was, always stared at the