The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. “I was watching you at Morningside Park, dear,” said Miss Miniver. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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