Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. They broke open the entrance into Jonathan's store-room—plundered it of everything valuable—ransacked every closet, drawer, and secret hiding-place, and stripped them of their contents. "Ah! but," said I, "there's a great deal in being hanged. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate.
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