They found out Cris had some sort of criminal past, more child abuse stuff of course. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality.
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