After relating all that occurred that evening my dear Ursula told me of something else, something quite exasperating and annoying to me and, certainly... to her. Carl had been texting, phoning, and emailing her. And he was even using other methods to try to keep in contact with Ursula. What the hell was his scheme? I could not decipher what his plan was. He had Cynthia. What more would he want? How much did one man need to be happy? I tried to explain to her the difference between being courteous. The thin little nightshirt she wore was kind of . . . tight, and short, compared to the ones I’d seen her and other girls wear. I couldn't help noticing her long coltish legs, or the small indentations of her nipples pushing against the thin cotton fabric. But I was conscious of her age, and that she was my step-daughter, and didn't pay much attention. Several times, though, when she moved or shifted on the couch while reading, my eyes were drawn to those legs. And once, when she got up and. More

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