FROM THE JOURNALS OF ADRIAN MCCARTHY
It all started when I was twelve—no, younger than that even. My uncle whipped me with a belt when he first saw me in my mother’s silk evening clothes, made-up with my young inexperienced hands of ten, the skirts pooling around my feet like pink champagne. It was then they sent me to live in the attic of my father’s household, that old Victorian manor surrounded by the tenements of a big New England metropolis. But that enlightened sunshine never fell upon those dusty Persian rugs, the tarnished dinnerware, the threadbare tablecloths. Only when I came did I put pride into the domesticities of the house, my father being away at the bank. I would pretend to be the lady of the house when he was gone. The servants never said anything.