Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead.
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