*Leah*
I stare at the rumpled man with his crumpled top hat pulled low, his greasy hair hanging in matted ropy strands down to his shoulders, his scraggly beard possibly serving as a home to lice or fleas. The fingers of his gloves are naught but frayed remnants, leaving his actual fingers dirty and grimy exposed. His tattered, worn clothing hangs off his skeletal-like frame.
Swiftly, I move to slam the door closed, but he sticks his booted foot over the threshold, stopping me from reaching my goal. He gives a hard shove on the door that causes me to loosen my hold and stagger back. Squaring my shoulders, I straighten and glare at him. "You are not my father. My father's dead."
"Is that what your mum told you, gel? Bless her. She never did seem to favor me." He grins.
Then how in the G
