My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. It was not for a week or a month. She would have to move on to a more lawless country soon, Mexico, Columbia, then cross the sea where she could eventually return to the chaos of Eastern Europe and the Russias.
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