I studied her eye through the crack in the door just to see if the woman was wearing spectacles. "Girl," the Right Reverend declared, giving his throat a good clearing. "Surely someone will come and take the, theā¦" Without you, the child is destined to a most piteous life in the orphan asylum." "You are the waif's last relation in the world. Warne," said the Right Reverend, sliding his pointy black boot forward just a hint to keep her door from slamming shut on his petition. I quickly ran my hands over my head to smooth down my hair from the center, lest she start commenting on the size of my ears. "Take in this gangly urchin you claim is one of my kin? One look tells me the child hasn't made the acquaintance of a bar of lye in a good many years, not to mention been in the same two-mile vicinity of a comb." It opened just a few inches to allow a single blue eye to survey me up and down. You're expecting me to do what?" snapped a peevish voice from the other side of the heavy wooden door. In Which I Find Myself on the Doorstep of a Pickled Onion
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