Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. There were probably others buried around the 13 house, she had seen a suspicious working refrigerator in the back of the garage mess, but she wasn’t about to check it out.
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