272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. " "I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel, affectionately extending her hand to him. “Lucy, my brother is home and I borrowed the cash from him.
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