Late that night, at Bloomsbury House in London, which housed the children’s refugee offices, Marla paced as Sebastian sat in a ripped leather chair behind a desk. Marla threw an old January London Times down on the desk. On the front page was a photo of a horrified Becca and a seasick Peter, wobbling down the gangplank, as they disembarked at Harwich.
“I know I shouldn’t have let Peter go off with those people, but I have no other options. We have over a hundred more children coming in tomorrow,” she said.
“There was nothing you could do.” Sebastian looked at her sympathetically.
“You should have seen his face,” she said. “It was not a good match.”
“But they chose him,” Sebastian reasoned.
“Because he could fit into their God-forsaken attic!” Marla gestured wildly with her hands, her blue eyes alive with anguish.
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