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“Simon’s baby,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Simon’s baby girl. But you are too many, much too many to be Simon’s baby girl. How many are you?” “Seventeen,” I whispered. He was still uncomfortably close. “Lane!” he shouted. I jumped. “Do I have a niece of seventeen?” “Yes,” came Lane’s voice from the door. The old man relaxed. “Then that is as it should be. Lane always knows when things are as they should be. Where is your father, little niece?” — Sharon Cameron
Simon’s baby,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Simon’s baby girl. But you are too many, much too many to be Simon’s baby girl. How many are you?”
“Seventeen,” I whispered. He was still uncomfortably close.
“Lane!” he shouted. I jumped. “Do I have a niece of seventeen?”
“Yes,” came Lane’s voice from the door.
The old man relaxed. “Then that is as it should be. Lane always knows when things are as they should be. Where is your father, little niece?