He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. “My charm of manner, I suppose. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser.
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